


New Monster Stories

by kathkin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Mutual Pining, the real OTP is Geralt x Cheeseburger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: “So do you have a name?”“Yeah.” The man who had saved his life less than an hour ago – the white-haired, absurdly buff, weirdly sexy man Jaskier might have called taciturn if he was feeling charitable and surly if he was feeling less so – dug into his second burger.Jaskier waited. “Are… you going to tell me what it is?”The man paused mid-bite, and looked at him reproachfully as if to say how dare you. How dare you interrupt me. Can’t you see I’m enjoying my cheeseburger. Can’t you see this cheeseburger is the most important thing in my life right at the moment. He swallowed, and said, “Geralt.”It turns out almost getting eaten by a werewolf can make your whole life go careening off in a new, terrifying, wondrous, artistically flourishing direction. Who knew?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 347
Kudos: 3787





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is not a WIP! Chapter 2 is written and will be up in a week or so once it's been edited.
> 
> 2) Some worldbuilding beats inspired by The Adventure Zone: Amnesty.
> 
> 3) I think the opening of this was inspired by a Tumblr post but I can't find it now! If anyone knows the post I mean please let me know and I'll add a link right here. <-
> 
> 4) Rating is for chapter 2.

“So do you have a name?”

“Yeah.” The man who had saved his life less than an hour ago – the white-haired, absurdly buff, weirdly sexy man Jaskier might have called _taciturn_ if he was feeling charitable and _surly_ if he was feeling less so – dug into his second burger.

Jaskier waited. “Are… you going to tell me what it is?”

The man paused mid-bite, and looked at him reproachfully as if to say _how dare you. How dare you interrupt me. Can’t you see I’m enjoying my cheeseburger. Can’t you see this cheeseburger is the most important thing in my life right at the moment._ He swallowed, and said, “Geralt.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier echoed. “What sort of a name is that?”

“What sort of a name is _Jaskier_?” said the man – Geralt – if that _was_ his real name.

“It’s a nickname,” said Jaskier. “Actually.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. “S’it Polish?”

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, mildly surprised.

“Hm,” said Geralt again. He went back to only having eyes for his cheeseburger.

A couple were coming down the street towards them, smartly dressed, as if they were on their way to a nice dinner. When they reached Geralt they parted around him as if he were a lamp post or a bollard, not sparing him a second glance.

Jaskier scrunched up his cheeseburger wrapper in his hands and leaned against the wall. It was odd, that – not the oddest thing about Geralt by a long way, but still it was odd the way no-one gave him a second look. An unreasonably broad-shouldered man with prematurely white hair, clad in leather, carrying not one but two very large swords, going absolutely hog wild on a cheeseburger in the middle of a city street with otherwise normal foot traffic for that time of the night, and no-one seemed to care. They didn’t even seem to notice him.

“Soooo,” he said. “What was that thing? Down in the station?”

“Werewolf,” said Geralt around his burger.

“Ah, of course,” said Jaskier, nodding. “A werewolf. Which you killed. With a sword. Made of silver.”

“Hm,” Geralt agreed.

“Alright, look,” said Jaskier. “I just very kindly bought you three – _three_ – entire cheeseburgers from the finest burger van in the vicinity. The _least_ you could do to repay my kindness is offer me _some_ kind of explanation for all,” he gestured at Geralt’s – entire leather and sword _thing_ , “this.”

“Saved your life, didn’t I?” said Geralt.

“Well –” Jaskier couldn’t argue with that. “I can’t argue with that.”

“Hm.” Geralt finished his second burger, and unwrapping his third fumbled it. It slipped out of its greasy wrapper onto the pavement, spilling lettuce and grease.

“Whoops,” said Jaskier, and then as Geralt stooped and picked it up, “oh – oh come _on_ , you’re not actually going to eat that, are you? Oh, _gross_.” He watched, unable to take his eyes off the unfolding travesty, as Geralt stoically began to eat his pavement burger. “Oh, that’s vile,” he remarked. And yet – somehow – it wasn’t doing anything to abate the whole ‘weirdly sexy’ thing. “Do you have no manners? What are you, some kind of – underground troll man?”

Geralt shrugged, as if to say _sure, close enough_.

“I mean,” said Jaskier, “when did you last shower?”

Chewing his burger thoughtfully, Geralt shrugged again. “I don’t have a shower.”

Jaskier considered. He said, “d’you want to use mine?”

*

So there he sat, in his living room – which was strictly speaking a sofa in the corner of his kitchen – idly toying with his guitar, listening to the electric hiss of his shower, and trying very hard to _not_ picture it – Geralt, and all of his muscles, naked and wet in his bathroom.

He plucked out a few chords. He had a snatch of a tune in his head. He’d had it ever since he’d stumbled out of the station, the ringing in his ears fading.

His gaze fell on Geralt’s jacket, tossed idly upon his kitchen table. He shouldn’t. He _really_ shouldn’t. It would be rude, and dishonest, and – _very_ low.

Setting down his guitar he shifted along the sofa till he could reach it. He checked one pocket and found a faded receipt for a corner shop. Checked the other and found it wholly empty. Checked the inside pocket – _bingo_. A wallet.

It was slack – almost empty. No ID. No cards. A few coins in an eclectic mix of currencies. A piece of paper, folded, with fuzzy edges, that contained a note in a script he didn’t recognise. A single dried flower.

It was as he was inspecting the flower that he became aware the shower had stopped running. He fumbled it back into place and as footsteps approached the bathroom door, shoved the wallet into Geralt’s jacket pocket, flung it back onto the table and flung himself to the far side of the sofa.

The bathroom door opened. He grabbed his guitar. “Evening,” he said, studying his guitar strings, trying to look as if he’d been at it the whole time.

Geralt stood in the kitchen doorway, fully dressed, his hair damp and dripping a little on the carpet. He reached for his jacket. “Don’t touch my things.”

“I wasn’t,” said Jaskier.

“I mean it,” said Geralt, shrugging his jacket back on. He took out his wallet and went through it, checking it was unmolested.

“I didn’t take anything,” said Jaskier. “I was just –”

“I don’t have ID,” said Geralt.

“Right,” said Jaskier.

“I don’t exist.” Geralt put his wallet back inside his jacket.

“Right,” said Jaskier. “Cool. Right. Just one question, though. What the fuck do you mean, you don’t exist?”

“I’m a witcher,” said Geralt, as if that explained everything.

“Witcher than what?” said Jaskier. Geralt shot him a look. A _shut up, that’s all you’re getting_ sort of look.

“Thank you for the burgers, and the shower,” said Geralt. “It was kind. I should go.” He made to leave.

“Do you have anywhere to sleep tonight?” Jaskier blurted out.

“Hm?” said Geralt.

The thing of it was. The problem, the very real, actual problem, currently doing fascinating things to Jaskier’s insides, was that with the sweat and grime and – werewolf blood, washed away, Geralt had gone from ‘weirdly sexy’ to ‘holy _fuck_ ’. He was sitting in his kitchen with a strong contender for the most handsome man he’d ever seen and if he didn’t do anything about it he’d never forgive himself. If he didn’t do anything about it and he lived to be ninety he’d be lying in his bed in a nursing home rasping, _I should have tapped that._

“You can sleep here,” said Jaskier. “If you want.”

“On the sofa?” said Geralt.

“I mean, I guess,” said Jaskier. “But I do also. Have a bed.”

“I’m not taking your bed,” said Geralt.

“Well, I could also be in the bed,” said Jaskier. “We could both be in the bed. Together.”

“That sounds impractical,” said Geralt.

“This is a come on,” said Jaskier, giving up. “I’m coming onto you.”

There was a very long, very tense pause, in which Geralt’s hair continued to drip onto the floor.

“I’ll take the sofa,” he said. “If you’re offering it.”

“Yes. Yes!” said Jaskier. “You are. More than welcome to the sofa. It’s a – a sofa. I’ll get you a duvet.” He leapt off the sofa. “You did after all save me from getting eaten by a werewolf. You can have my sofa _any_ time.”

In his bedroom, standing on a chair and digging his spare duvet out of the top shelf of his wardrobe, he said to himself through gritted teeth, “I _also_ have a bed. We could _both_ be in the bed.” The duvet flumphed out into his arms and he swayed, almost falling from the chair. “Nice going, Jask. Really smooth. Great job. _Fuck_.”

*

A loud, angry-sounding thumping on his front door. Tugging off his headphones, Jaskier waited for it to stop. It stopped. He put his headphones back on, and it began again.

“For _fuck’s_ sake,” he said, and throwing down his headphones he went to the door.

Through the peephole, tiny and distorted, he saw an _achingly_ familiar profile. A face he’d pictured a lot over the past weeks, often while engaging in acts of self-pleasure. A person he’d wonder if he might have dreamt, if the memory weren’t so viscerally and uncomfortably real.

He opened the door. “Hi,” he said. “What are you – oh _god_ , what is that smell?”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt. “May I use your shower?”

“Oh, what, you think you can just waltz in here and use my shower whenever you want?” said Jaskier.

“You did say I could stay here any time,” said Geralt.

“Did I?” said Jaskier. He _had_. Fuck. “Okay, yeah, I said you could have my sofa, but that does _not_ automatically extend to the shower.”

“I don’t like to impose,” said Geralt. “I’m in a bit of a situation. I was in the area.”

“ _I’ll_ say,” said Jaskier, looking him up and down. “How do you get so filthy? And seriously, _why_ do you smell like that?”

“It’s a long story,” said Geralt. “Can I use your shower?”

“So you think you can just wander into my life and be all cryptic, and, and,” Jaskier gestured vaguely up and down Geralt’s body, thankfully catching himself before commenting on his relative attractiveness, “and then disappear for weeks and then come back and do it again? You think cause you saved me from a werewolf or whatever that means you get unlimited access to my shower and free meals forever?”

“Well,” said Geralt. “Does it?”

The shower hissed. Jaskier stood in his poky kitchen, frying bacon and inwardly grumbling. At least, he told himself, last time Geralt had left the shower if anything cleaner than when he’d arrived, so he probably didn’t have to worry about – whatever it was Geralt had rolled in getting all over the bathroom.

The shower cut out as he was plating up. “How do you feel about ketchup?” he called.

“Please,” said Geralt through the bathroom door.

Jaskier ate his bacon sandwich perched on the arm of the sofa, watching Geralt demolish his. There was something almost mesmerising about watching him eat, the sheer gusto he exhibited, the single-minded passion for the task at hand. Did he fuck with that kind of enthusiasm, Jaskier wondered.

“Thank you for the sandwich,” said Geralt, setting aside his plate.

“Any time,” said Jaskier. “Although. Not actually _any_ time, because I only have so much money with which to buy bacon.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. “You did offer.”

“It’s like with stray dogs, isn’t it?” said Jaskier. “I feed you once and you keep on coming back?” Geralt shot him a look as if to say _I don’t appreciate that comparison, actually._

“Could I ask another favour of you?” he said.

“Depends what it is,” said Jaskier.

Shifting, Geralt took off his jacket.

“ _Yikes_ ,” said Jaskier. “Oh – oh, wow – are you okay?”

Geralt touched the ragged hole in his shirt. His sleeve was dark with blood. “It’s not that deep,” he pronounced. “Looks worse than it is.” He looked up at Jaskier. “There’s a medical kit in my bag. Can you help? It’s –” He motioned at his injured shoulder. “Awkward.”

“I can – try,” said Jaskier, scrambling down onto the sofa. “Shouldn’t you go to hospital?”

Digging through his bag, Geralt said, “I don’t need to go to hospital.”

“You might need stitches,” said Jaskier.

“Don’t need stitches,” said Geralt. He brought out his medical kit and unrolled it on his lap. He handed Jaskier a length of bandage and said, “I already cleaned it. Just put this on and tape it in place.”

“Sure,” said Jaskier. He sat holding the bandage, watching as Geralt took off his ruined shirt, and oh, _fuck_. He’d thought a lot about what Geralt might look like with his shirt off and all of his expectations were being surpassed, and now was _not_ the time. Geralt was hurt. He was hurt and bleeding and vulnerable and none of that should be a turn-on, _and yet_.

His bicep was very firm. “I really think you should get stitches,” said Jaskier, eying the gashes, which looked pretty deep to him.

“I don’t need stitches,” said Geralt. “I heal faster than a human. Just bandage it.”

“Right.” Jaskier wrapped the bandage around his arm. “So, um,” he said, trying to sound light, like he was just making normal conversation. “You’re not –”

“I’m a mutant.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. “What does that –”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Geralt. He offered Jaskier the medical tape. “Tighter than that.”

“Sure.” Jaskier pulled the bandage tighter. “Gamma radiation?”

“No,” said Geralt.

“Cat DNA?” said Jaskier. Geralt shot him a nonplussed look. “The eyes.”

“Magic,” said Geralt.

“Oh, of course,” said Jaskier. “That would fit with the whole – werewolf thing.”

“Hm,” said Geralt by way of agreement.

“So was it a werewolf? That took a chunk out of you?”

“No,” said Geralt. “Wyvern. Took out a nest.”

“Ohh,” said Jaskier. “Okay.” What the fuck was a _wyvern_? “Are there a lot of those about?”

“Are you done?” said Geralt.

“I think so.” Jaskier handed back the tape. “I still think you should see a doctor. It might get infected or something.”

“And tell them what?” said Geralt.

“That you got bitten by a – dog?” said Jaskier. Geralt was giving him a _you’re an idiot_ sort of look. “Big dog,” he supplied.

Geralt began to put his shirt back on. “I already cleaned it,” he said. “They wouldn’t be able to handle this kind of infection risk.” He fastened his shirt, and said, “this area’s very active.”

“Pardon me?” said Jaskier. He realised Geralt was answering his question about the wyverns. “In – wyverns?”

“And other things,” said Geralt. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not dangerous?” said Jaskier.

“I have the situation under control,” said Geralt.

“Right,” Jaskier said, looking him up and down. “Yeah. I can see that.” Geralt shot him a look. He changed the subject, sort of. “If there’s that many monsters around here why hasn’t anyone noticed?”

“People avoid what makes them uncomfortable,” said Geralt. “And people disappear all the time.”

“Well, that’s,” said Jaskier. “Horrifying.” He scooted along to the other end of the sofa and picked up his songbook. “So, what’s a wyvern?”

“Sort of like a dragon,” said Geralt. “But smaller.”

“Cool – cool,” said Jaskier. “Wings and all?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And big teeth, I’m guessing,” said Jaskier, eying Geralt’s shoulder. “When you say smaller – how big, exactly?”

“Well –” Geralt looked hard at Jaskier. “Are you taking notes?”

Jaskier looked down at his notes. “No,” he said.

Geralt snatched his songbook out of his hands.

“Hey!” he protested, grabbing for it. “That’s – that’s my songbook – I do _not_ let people look in there you, you – sewer goblin!”

“I don’t live in the sewers,” said Geralt, studying his notes.

Jaskier crawled along the sofa and made another grab for his songbook. Geralt held it at arms length – and with his other hand grabbed the front of Jaskier’s shirt, holding him place. “Give it,” said Jaskier, vainly stretching. “And – wow, you are _strong_ –”

“Mm,” Geralt concurred. Up close, he smelled like Jaskier’s shampoo, which was weird. Intimate. “Did you tell anyone about the werewolf?”

“ _Not_ exactly,” said Jaskier. He made a last futile attempt at recovering his songbook, and gave up. Geralt released him and gave him a shove back towards the end of the sofa. Then he turned back a few pages in Jaskier’s songbook and began to read.

“Look,” said Jaskier. “I just happened to find the whole nearly getting eaten alive thing very inspiring, and, and I recorded a song, and people _loved_ it. They ate that shit up, Geralt,” he went on. “I’ve never had this many downloads. I, I actually made some money off it. I’ve never made any money off my music before. I need you to give me more material. Please. _Please_. Also give me my songbook back, it has a lot of sentimental value.”

“Hm.” Geralt held up the songbook, open to his first draft of the werewolf song. “This it?”

“It sounds better to music,” said Jaskier.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” said Geralt. “Some things are secret for a reason.”

“Yeah, and it’s still a secret!” said Jaskier. “Everyone thinks I made the whole business up. They’re all like, _wow Jaskier, it’s so vivid, you’d almost think it was based on a true story_ , and I’m like yeah well, you know, I’m a very good writer.”

“Hm.” Geralt turned back another page.

“ _That_ – is personal,” said Jaskier. “No-one’s allowed to read that – yet –” He made another grab for the book and this time Geralt let him take it. Closing his songbook he said, “help me out. C’mon.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, and that _hm_ was definitely a no.

“What if I make you more bacon?” said Jaskier. “Would you consider furnishing me with another monster story in exchange for bacon?”

“We’ll see,” said Geralt. Then he said, “you have anything to drink?”

“You mean as in booze?” said Jaskier.

“Yeah,” said Geralt.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Jaskier.

After two shots of vodka and all the bacon Jaskier had in his fridge, Geralt was _somewhat_ more forthcoming. He sat listening to the full story, jotting down notes, pressing for details as much as he dared.

“Mm,” said Geralt. “Yeah. There were eggs. I killed them too.”

“Got it,” said Jaskier, noting that down. “So, um –”

“That’s all you’re getting,” said Geralt.

“Cool.” Jaskier studied his double page spread of notes. “Okay,” he said, and closed his songbook. “So where do you live? If it’s not the sewers.”

“Around,” said Geralt, still going to town on his bacon.

“Are you homeless?” said Jaskier.

“Technically,” said Geralt.

“That’s unfortunate.”

Geralt grunted. “Just how it is.”

“And, um,” said Jaskier. “While we’re on the subject. What’s a witcher?” Geralt shot him a look as if to say _wouldn’t you like to know_. “I’m guessing it’s different from a witch. Unless witches are totally different than I’ve been picturing.”

“No, a witch is a different thing,” said Geralt.

“Okay,” said Jaskier, drawing a circle in the air with his pen. “Okay. We’re going to put a pin in that one and come back to it later. What’s a witcher, then?”

“There’s monsters,” said Geralt. “I hunt them. That’s all you need to know.”

“And you’re a mutant,” said Jaskier. “For. Magic reasons.”

“Yes.” Geralt finished the bacon. “Thank you for the bacon.”

“It’s no problem,” said Jaskier. “I love a man who can – eat his own weight in pig products.” He processed what he’d just said. “ _What_.”

Geralt gave him an odd look, but, mercifully, didn’t give any other acknowledgement of the words that had come out of his mouth and how utterly stupid they were. “I’ll wash up,” he said.

“You don’t need to do that,” said Jaskier. “Your arm –”

“It’s fine,” said Geralt. “Don’t worry about me.”

In the night, he got up for a glass of water. Not because he was thirsty – just to give himself a pretext for going into the kitchen. He opened the door, very slowly, and tip-toed in. Geralt didn’t stir, or if he did he gave no sign of it.

Jaskier regarded him, in the light from the hall. He was, to all appearances, fast asleep. One arm trailed over the edge of the sofa, down to the carpet. His hair had fallen over his face. Jaskier had to resist a tender urge to go over and put it behind his ear.

In his room, lying in the dark with his phone, he googled _witcher_. Did you mean: witch? said Google, which was no help. “You’re no help,” he said aloud.

*

He could always tell when it was Geralt at his front door. For one thing, almost no-one knocked on his door; on the rare occasions he had visitors they used the buzzer. And for another Geralt’s knock had a characteristic quality, a heavy _thud, thud_ , thud like he was pissed off with the door and trying to start a fight.

He looked out the peephole anyway, just in case. Geralt had sunglasses on. That was new.

“Evening,” he said, opening the door. “The sunglasses are new.” It was also the very human hour of seven p.m. He didn’t think Geralt had ever shown up at his door so early.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. “Have you eaten?”

“Um,” said Jaskier. “No. Are you here to use my shower again?”

“No,” said Geralt. He held up a plastic bag. “I brought dinner. As a thank you – for the showers.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. That was a surprise. A good surprise. A pleasantly surprising, surprise. “You’d better come in, then.”

Geralt had brought Chinese food and beer. They sat at either end of Jaskier’s sofa, and ate, and got mildly drunk and watched trash on Netflix and didn’t walk about monsters, for once.

Until, in a lull in the conversation, Geralt said, “did you write another song?”

“Mmm,” Jaskier said.

“Did it make you any money?” said Geralt.

“A bit,” said Jaskier. “Like I said. People eat it up. It’s not my usual sort of thing, everyone’s like, _wow Jaskier, what a fascinating departure for you_ , which I think makes them like it a bit better.

“Hm,” said Geralt.

Jaskier nudged his thigh with his foot. “Still don’t like it?”

“Be careful,” Geralt said. “Once people start noticing things they can’t always stop.”

“That what happened with me, is it?” said Jaskier. Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier nudged him again. “Hm?”

“Yes,” said Geralt. “Survival instinct is powerful. It can override a lot of things.”

“Whaaat does that mean.” Jaskier kicked at Geralt’s thigh. “Geralt. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“Come _on_ ,” said Jaskier. “I already know about the monsters. Stop being so mysterious.”

“Let’s not get into it tonight,” said Geralt.

Jaskier sighed theatrically. “ _Fine_ ,” he said. “I’ll get it out of you later.” He thrust his feet into Geralt’s lap. “By the by, I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you have a phone number?”

“No.” Geralt swigged beer. “You can give me yours if you want.”

“And you’ll call me – how?” said Jaskier.

“Payphone,” said Geralt.

“They still have those?” said Jaskier vaguely.

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“So in future you’ll call ahead when you want to take a shower?” said Jaskier.

Geralt looked down at his noodles. “I’ll stop coming if I’m not wanted,” he said.

“I didn’t say you weren’t wanted,” said Jaskier.

“I enjoy your company,” said Geralt. “It’s been a long time since I had – companionship. I didn’t mean to impose.”

“Are you saying you want to be my friend?” said Jaskier.

Geralt looked at him for a long and uncomfortable moment. “Yes,” he said.

“We can be friends,” said Jaskier.

He wanted _very badly_ to ask if that meant sex was off the table. He did _not_ want to make things weird, especially when he was currently so comfortable, pleasantly tipsy with his feet in Geralt’s lap.

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“Don’t suppose you have any new monster stories?” said Jaskier.

“Not now,” said Geralt.

“You mean you don’t?” said Jaskier. “Or you don’t want to talk about it over noodles?”

“Bit of both,” said Geralt.

Jaskier considered the situation. “Do you want the sofa again?” he said.

Geralt shook his head. “I should go soon,” he said.

“You’re welcome to it,” said Jaskier. Geralt grunted. “I don’t like to think of you sleeping on the streets.”

“A rare event,” said Geralt.

“You have somewhere to sleep tonight?” said Jaskier.

“Hm,” said Geralt, which Jaskier thought was _probably_ a yes.

“Well,” he said. “Okay, then.”

*

He was five monster songs deep and thinking of making an album. Or, more accurately, he wanted to make an album, but given the eccentric manner in which he acquired his material wasn’t about to _commit_ to any such plan.

Then he played his first gig since starting the whole monster songs project – open mic music night, at one of his favoured haunts – and played the whole set, and afterwards people kept saying to him _hey, those were all great, you should do an album_ and drunk on attention and white wine he said _hell yeah I’m making an album._

“It, it just came to me,” he said later that night, drunk on a lot more than just attention, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding music. “I was on the train and I was like – hey! I should write a song about werewolves.”

“Yeah?” said Patrick.

Patrick wasn’t a _friend_ , strictly speaking. He had a bland personality and bland musical sensibilities but he was young and innocent enough to think that having a moderately popular Soundcloud and playing the kinds of gigs he did made Jaskier hot shit, and Jaskier wasn’t about to argue.

“What about the hunter guy?” said Patrick. “Where’d he come from?”

“Well, there had to be someone there to fight the werewolf,” said Jaskier.

“Ah, yeah,” said Patrick, nodding in tipsy understanding. “Why’d you call him the witcher, though?”

“Yeah, that’s a really good question and I just, I don’t have a good answer for you,” said Jaskier. He downed the last inch of his Jack and coke and tiring of the conversation let his gaze wander over to the dance floor, where – speak of the _fucking_ devil. “’Scuse me,” he said, and left Patrick to wallow in his blandness.

“Geralt!” he exclaimed, shoving his way through the crowd. He grabbed Geralt’s shoulders. “Hey there!”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt. “What are you –” He looked down the length of Jaskier’s body. “Are you wearing heels?”

“Fashion, baby,” said Jaskier. He patted Geralt’s chest. Actually, that was very nice, his hand on Geralt’s chest. He decided to keep it there as long as he could get away with. Geralt’s chest was pleasingly firm and the leather of his jacket was warm to the touch. Did he have a thing for leather? Maybe Geralt had awoken a thing for leather in him.

“Long time no see. What are you doing here?” he said. “I didn’t think this was your scene.”

“It’s not,” said Geralt. “I’m here on business. You need to leave.”

“What?” said Jaskier. “Don’t tell me what to do.” He was cross enough that he almost took his hand off Geralt’s chest. He changed his mind and put his other hand on there as well, pressing both of his palms into the leather of his jacket.

“Jaskier.” Geralt took him by the wrists and moved his hands off his chest. “I’m here on business. Go home. It’s not safe.”

Jaskier’s sluggishly drunk brain caught up with his mouth. “You mean monster business?”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“Ah, fuck.” Jaskier looked around the club. There was no sign of a monster. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Geralt. “A vampire.”

“Vampires are a thing?” Jaskier tried to process that. Geralt was still holding his wrists, which was fun. He had big hands and a very firm grip. And, yeah, he was _much_ too drunk to be dealing with the news that vampires were, in fact, a real thing, and there was one in his immediate vicinity. “I’m too drunk for this.”

“Yes, you are,” Geralt agreed. “Go home. Please?”

“Shouldn’t you tell someone?” said Jaskier.

“They won’t listen to me,” said Geralt. “I have it under control.”

Again, Jaskier looked around the dance floor; and again he noticed it, the odd way no-one paid attention to Geralt, standing in the middle of the club all in leather, carrying his swords.

“Okay.” He eased his wrists – a touch reluctantly – out of Geralt’s grip, and stepped away. “I just have to. Find my friends. And m’coat. And then I’ll go.”

The trouble was it was easier said than done. The club, like most clubs, was confusingly laid out and disorientingly crowded and he couldn’t remember which direction the cloakroom was. Patrick wasn’t at the bar where he’d left him and none of his other friends were where he’d last seem them either. Possibly they were on the dance floor, which given that it was where Geralt was, was very likely where the vampire was.

He ordered another drink. Standing at the bar he mulled it over, mentally running through the list of people he’d come to the club with, trying to decide if he cared about any of them enough to chase them down on a probably vampire-infested dance floor.

It occurred to him, as he necked the last of the drink, that Patrick wasn’t really a dance floor sort of person, and also that he hadn’t checked the bathroom. And come to think of it, he needed the bathroom, so he could kill two birds with one stone.

The landing where the bathrooms were had a muted quality, the music from the dance floor far away and faint but for brief bursts of pounding noise when somebody opened the door. It was draped with squishy, cheap red velvet, because this was the sort of club that liked to put velvet on the walls. He didn’t love it aesthetically but it was nice when you were wasted and wanted a soft place to lean while you thought about life. He leaned his forehead against the wall, and pondered.

Patrick hadn’t been in the bathroom. So probably he was on the dance floor after all. The prospect of finding the cloakroom and then going downstairs and out onto the street – where it was probably nice and cold – was looking more and more appealing.

The door opened. A burst of throbbing bass. “You okay?” said a girl’s voice.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier. “M’fine. Don’t worry about me.” Turning, he leaned his back against the wall rather than his forehead and gazed up at the chandelier.

“Do you need me to get someone?” said the girl. She was standing a lot closer than he’d thought. He hadn’t heard her come over. The carpet had a way of absorbing footsteps.

“Nah,” said Jaskier. “I’m good. I’m going home.” He looked at her properly. She came up to his shoulder, and she had straight, dark hair cut in a bob. Scarlet lipstick. Dressed a few years out of date. “I’ve got some friends with me,” he said, so she wouldn’t think he was going to try and get himself home all on his own when he was clearly in no condition to do so, i.e., exactly what he intended to do.

“That man you were talking to on the dance floor,” she said, “he your friend?”

Jaskier looked at her muzzily. There was something off about that, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Yeah,” he said.

She stepped closer. “I didn’t think witchers had friends.”

Okay, _that_ was weird. This was becoming a very weird interaction. “Yeah,” he said again. “We’re _best_ friends,” he added, which was arguably a bit of an exaggeration considering he didn’t know Geralt’s last name or where he lived.

She stepped closer still. She put her hand on the plush wall beside his chest, fingers sinking in to the velvet. “I bet he’d be _really_ torn up if somebody killed you,” she drawled.

Jaskier’s mouth went ahead and replied to that _long_ before his Jack Daniels soaked brain had managed to process it. “Well, I like to think so,” he said.

She was on him before he could cry out. One of her hands over his mouth, shoving him back into the wall with enough strength to force all the air out of his lungs, the other on his shoulder, wrenching him painfully down, her fingers clenching like a vice. Her teeth, in his neck.

A sharp and burning pain. Blood running unbearably hot down his neck. The sound of his own pulse racing, throbbing in his ears, as loud and far way as the club music. He tried to fight back, to push her away, but she might as well have been made of _steel_ , she was so unyielding.

He really, _really_ shouldn’t have had that last drink.

As suddenly she was on him she was dragged away, her teeth wrenched out of his neck with a horrible sucking feeling of tearing flesh. He heard her cry out, another cry, a deep, gravelly cry.

He was aware of a struggle just a few feet away, the vampire yelling, hissing, something thumping hard against the wall. His head was swimming. He put his hand to his neck and feeling blood kept it there. His legs gave way under him, slowly, by degrees, and he sank to the sticky carpet.

It was a million miles away, all of it; the club, the music, the fight. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to go to sleep.

A final, high-pitched yowl like a cat. The sound of something heavy falling to the floor. A terrible, dank smell like rotting grass. He took his hand from his neck and looked at the blood on his shaking fingers.

“Jaskier.” Suddenly Geralt was there, hands gripping his shoulders, tugging him back into the present moment. “Jaskier. Are you okay?”

Geralt was _very_ close. He smelled like sweat. His hair had come down and was hanging in clumps around his face and his pupils were narrow slits. Jaskier stared at him, not quite able to muster the words to describe how not-okay he was.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s hand moved from his shoulder to – _god_ – his face. He cupped Jaskier’s cheek, gentling him. “Can you hear me?”

“Mmyeah,” said Jaskier. The floor was tilting under him.

“You’re bleeding.” Geralt tilted his head to the side to inspect the bite. “Here.” His hands left Jaskier’s skin, but only for a moment. He came back with a square bandage, which he pressed to the bite and taped in place.

His hand drifted from Jaskier’s neck back to his face, fingertips ghosting along his cheekbone. “Talk to me,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“M’not sure,” said Jaskier. In truth he was pretty sure he was more wasted than anything else – wasted, with blood loss as a contributing factor – but he wasn’t about to say anything that might stop Geralt touching him like this, all soft and tender and concerned, and _stroking his hair_.

Geralt was stroking his hair, and the landing was moving gently around him, dipping and swaying like they were on a boat. He wanted to laugh. He wanted, very badly, to kiss Geralt. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted to kiss anyone so badly in his life. His lips were _right there_. If only he wasn’t so limp, and heavy, and wasted. He just – _ugh_.

“You haven’t lost a lot of blood,” said Geralt. “She barely touched you. I don’t think you need to see a doctor.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jaskier.

“Can you stand?” said Geralt. “Here.” Wrapping his arms around Jaskier he hauled him upright.

Jaskier stumbled, and clutched at Geralt, and stood, sort of. He wasn’t sure he was standing as much as being held in an upright position. If Geralt let go of him he’d collapse to the floor like a puppet without any strings. He put his face against Geralt’s neck, and sighed.

“You know how to attract trouble, don’t you?” said Geralt, which wasn’t fair at all, but Jaskier mumbled an agreement anyway. “I’m going to take you home.”

“Yeah,” said Jaskier. “Yeah. Okay.” With a heroic effort, he put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder and got himself a little steadier. He looked around, getting his bearings.

The girl – the vampire – was lying on the carpet in a puddle of dark blood. Her face was hidden behind a curtain of hair. “What about –”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Geralt. “Did you have a coat?”

“Yeah,” said Jaskier. He unhooked one arm from Geralt and groped for the pocket of his shorts. “Yeah. Can’t find the cloakroom but it’s around. Somewhere. They gave me a ticket.”

When they came back through the landing to the stairs, there was no sign of the body, nothing left but a stain on the floor.

*

His bedside lamp was on, giving the room a warm, fuzzy glow. “Taking me to bed, eh?” he said.

“Shh,” said Geralt, and scooping Jaskier up, one arm on his back, the other – _oh my_ – under his thighs, he deposited him on the unmade bed. “How are you feeling?”

“M’fine,” said Jaskier. “I’m not really. Blood lossy-y. I’m just wasted,” he confessed.

“I know,” said Geralt, and kneeling he began to take off Jaskier’s boots.

“Oh, you can undress me _any_ time,” said Jaskier.

“Shush.” Reaching up, Geralt covered his mouth.

“Hey,” said Jaskier.

“I don’t want you saying anything you’ll regret in the morning,” said Geralt.

Jaskier wanted to say, _I’m not ever going to regret saying stuff like that, to you_ , but he wasn’t sure he could string a sentence with that many words in it together, and anyway he didn’t think Geralt would believe him on account of how spectacularly wasted he was. _He_ wouldn’t believe him, if he wasn’t him.

And yeah, he reflected as Geralt set his boots against the bed, he was _far_ too drunk to be coming on to people. But he didn’t think there was such a thing as too drunk for cuddling, and if he was going to be put to bed he wanted Geralt to join him, and hold him till he fell asleep. He didn’t want to be left alone, in his particular condition. He’d feel safe, with Geralt’s arms around him.

He said, “mmfth.”

“Hm,” Geralt agreed. He went away for a moment, and when he came back it was with a glass of water. “Drink this,” he said, putting it to Jaskier’s mouth.

“Okay,” said Jaskier faintly. Taking the cup he drank, Geralt’s hand steady on his shoulder, drifting to his back, gentling him. “M’sorry,” he said when he’d drunk all the water.

“For what?” said Geralt.

“Not doing what I was told,” said Jaskier.

“Hm,” said Geralt, and Jaskier hadn’t a clue what that particular _hm_ meant. He took the glass from Jaskier’s unresisting hand. “Get some sleep.”

“Okay,” said Jaskier. He flopped down sideways onto the pillow, and just sort of lay there while Geralt manhandled his legs fully onto the bed and pulled the covers up over his shoulders.

He ran his hand over Jaskier’s hair, once. Then the lamp clicked off and he was gone.

*

Jaskier woke the next morning, sober and headachey, and had a staring contest with the contents of his bedside table. There was a glass of water on his table, and a packet of painkillers, neither of which he had put there, which meant _somebody else_ had. A very particular _somebody else._

More to the point, he could hear someone moving around in the kitchen next door.

He kicked off the covers, and sat up. He was still in the clothes he’d out in, rumpled and worse for wear. His boots were set neatly by the bed. 

As he took the painkillers, he tried to piece together the night before. He didn’t really remember how he’d got home. He remembered leaving the club, and he had a hazy and tender and _mortifying_ memory of Geralt tucking him into bed. He foggily recalled Geralt carrying him up the stairs to his flat, but maybe he’d dreamed that part.

He went to his bedroom mirror and inspected his neck. There was a trail of dried blood all the way down to his shoulder. He peeled off the bandage, wincing as the tape pulled at his skin. The bite had scabbed over. He touched it, that bit of physical proof that the whole business hadn’t been a hideous nightmare.

He opened the bedroom door and was assaulted at once by a smell of cooking. Geralt was in his kitchen, making an omelette.

“You’re up,” he said, seeing Jaskier. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine,” said Jaskier. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I am,” said Geralt. He looked Jaskier up and down, and said, “booty shorts?”

Jaskier struck a pose in the kitchen doorway. “I’m working it,” he said.

“Didn’t you legs get cold last night?” said Geralt.

“A small price to pay for fashion,” said Jaskier. He’d decided to embrace the whole _slept in last night’s club clothes_ look. He’d pulled it off before, he could do it again. Admittedly on the previous occasions he hadn’t had blood all over his neck but he was pretty sure he could pull that off as well.

“Breakfast?” said Geralt.

“Sure,” he said, and sauntered over to his kitchen table. Geralt set a plate in front of him and sat down. He’d dug in before he realised Geralt was just sitting there, watching him. “You’re not eating?”

“I already ate,” said Geralt.

“Eating my food again?” said Jaskier.

“I went shopping,” said Geralt.

“Oh,” said Jaskier. He went back to his omelette, a little ashamed.

“How are you feeling?” said Geralt again.

“Um,” said Jaskier. He had the sensation that it wasn’t an idle question, that Geralt wanted a more detailed answer than a non-committal _fine_. “Hungover. Sort of achy. Very distressed. Why?”

“But normal?” said Geralt.

“Physically or emotionally?” said Jaskier.

“Physically,” said Geralt.

“Physically I pretty much feel hungover and bruised,” said Jaskier. “Emotionally I’m still reeling.”

“Will you give me a straight answer?” said Geralt.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” said Jaskier.

Geralt looked away, at the window, at the view out over grey rooftops. Looking back at Jaskier he said, “there’s a chance some venom might have got into your system.”

Jaskier’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Vampire venom?” he said. Geralt grunted an assent. “Are you. Are you saying I might be turning into a vampire?”

“There’s a chance,” said Geralt. “Not a big chance. She didn’t have her teeth in you for long.”

“I _really_ don’t feel like I’m turning into a vampire,” said Jaskier.

“Give me your hand,” said Geralt, and obligingly Jaskier slid it across the table. Geralt turned it over and set his big, warm fingers on Jaskier’s pulse point. “Hm,” he said after a minute or so.

“Good hm or bad hm?” said Jaskier.

“Your pulse is normal,” said Geralt. “You’d be presenting symptoms by now. If you’d been infected.”

“Well that’s,” said Jaskier. “Good.” He took his hand back, and resumed eating his omelette. “Is this why you stuck around all night?”

“Hm?” said Geralt.

“To make sure I wasn’t infected?” said Jaskier.

“I didn’t feel right leaving you alone,” said Geralt.

“Because I might have been turning into a vampire?” said Jaskier.

“I wanted to be sure you were alright,” said Geralt.

“What would you have done if I’d turned into a vampire?” said Jaskier.

“Let’s not get into that,” said Geralt.

See the thing of it was, Jaskier hadn’t really wanted to get into that. The fact that there existed a genuine possibility of his being turned into a vampire didn’t strike him as real enough to get worked up about. He was, after all, still trying to get his head around the fact that vampires existed in real life. He’d mostly asked to see what Geralt would say, but then Geralt had gone and implied that the answer was something upsetting, and now he _really_ wanted to get into it.

“I want to get into it, though,” he said.

“No, you don’t,” said Geralt.

“Yeeees, I do,” said Jaskier.

“If you’d been infected you’d be dead now,” said Geralt – and Jaskier had spent enough time with him, by now, to pick up on when he wasn’t going to be forthcoming, which was most of the time.

“Are there a lot of vampires around?” he said, changing tack.

“Enough to be a problem,” said Geralt.

“Should I be worried?” said Jaskier.

“Hard to say,” said Geralt. “Most people aren’t.”

“Most people don’t know about the vampires, though,” said Jaskier.

“I have it under control,” said Geralt. “If you’re that worried then move out of the active zone.”

“Okay, I need you to stop doing that,” said Jaskier. “I need you to stop saying cryptic bullshit like I’m meant to know what it means. I have no idea what that means. Please, _please_ just explain what’s going on. Why are there vampires? Have there always been vampires?”

“It’s complicated,” said Geralt.

“What, and I’m not smart enough to understand?” said Jaskier.

“It’s not that,” said Geralt.

“Then what is it?” said Jaskier.

“The less you know the better,” said Geralt.

“I strongly disagree,” said Jaskier.

“She went after you because she saw you talking to me,” said Geralt. “Didn’t she?”

Jaskier saw what he was getting at. His heart sank under the weight of it. “She,” he said. “Might have said something to that effect. Yeah.”

 _I didn’t think witchers had friends_ , she’d said. He’d been too drunk at the time to think through the implications of that.

“I think,” said Geralt, “it’d be best we don’t see each other.”

Jaskier didn’t think his heart could sink any further, but sink further it did, down through his insides, down, down through the floor, steadily descending through the building towards the street. “You mean _ever_?” he said.

“Yes,” said Geralt.

“You don’t mean that,” said Jaskier, shaking his head.

“This was a mistake,” said Geralt.

“No it wasn’t,” said Jaskier. “Nothing about this was a – _mistake_ , Geralt, I –” Geralt was just sort of – _looking_ at him, his face stony, betraying no emotion. “I don’t want to stop seeing you.”

“I know,” said Geralt. “It’s for the best.”

“The hell it is!” said Jaskier. “I don’t care about the monster business. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I’m sorry for – I want to know about you.”

“No, you don’t,” said Geralt.

“I want to know everything about you,” said Jaskier. “I want to know what you think about and what you’re feeling and – I want to know where you’re from and if you have any brothers and sisters and what your favourite animal was when you were a kid, and – I want you to let me _in_.”

“You don’t,” said Geralt. Then he said, “you’ll forget me.”

“What?” said Jaskier.

“If you don’t see me for a while you’ll forget,” said Geralt. “Like everyone else. It’ll be better that way.”

“I’m not going to forget you,” said Jaskier.

“Yes, you will,” said Geralt.

Jaskier set his hands on the table. “If I live to be ninety,” he said, “and I’m sitting in a nursing home somewhere and I don’t know what day of the week it is or what my kids look like – I will _still_ remember meeting you.”

“No,” said Geralt. “You won’t.”

And he was rising from his chair, because he mean to go _now_. He was going to leave Jaskier to sit and eat his lonely omelette and mull over the conversation they’d just had and never see him again. 

Geralt squeezed his shoulder, and left the room.

“Geralt,” said Jaskier, scrambling out of his chair, scrambling after him. “Geralt –” He caught him as he was opening the front door and slammed it shut. “Don’t you dare,” he said. “Don’t do this. I _know_ you don’t want to do this.”

 _I want companionship_ , Geralt had said. He was lonely. It _must_ be lonely, living in the world he inhabited, that strange twilight world where people acted like he didn’t exist. Somehow Jaskier had found his way in, and he didn’t know how he’d got there but he had no intention of leaving.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, in that scolding sort of tone, as if Jaskier was acting like a kid rather than the only _reasonable_ person in the room.

“Where are you going to take your showers now?” said Jaskier weakly.

“I’ll work something out,” said Geralt.

And the thing was, somehow – without him really noticing – his life had begun to orbit around Geralt. His unexpected visits, his weird, terse phone calls, Jaskier _lived_ for those Everything he wrote was about Geralt. He thought about him every spare moment. The thought of never seeing him again made his breath catch in his throat. He couldn’t stand it. He _wouldn’t_ stand it.

But then Geralt’s hand was on his shoulder and he thought, weakly, _this is it, he’ll never touch me again_. “You’ll forget about me,” said Geralt, and that time Jaskier thought maybe it was a command. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not, you bastard,” said Jaskier. His eyes were wet. He was too proud to wipe them.

Geralt’s hand slid from his shoulder. He opened the door and this time Jaskier didn’t try to stop him.

He lingered for a moment, in the doorway, regarding Jaskier as if he was trying to take in every detail of him – as if, Jaskier thought, as if maybe he wanted to remember this last sight of him. It struck him that Geralt’s last memory of him was going to be of him in booty shorts and hysterically he wanted to laugh.

Geralt said, “hm.” He closed the door behind him, and just like that he was gone.

*

On the plus side, people went _nuts_ over the vampire song.

 _You can’t end it like that, you bastard_ , Essi texted him the day after he posted it – Essi, one of his few actually _good_ friends, who’d had the gall to move to another city so he couldn’t see her every day. _You’re going to do more, right? That can’t be the end._

His thumb hovered over the touchscreen. _Haven’t decided yet_ , he texted back.

 _Fess up, I know you’re going to do more_ , she texted.

He didn’t really know how to reply to that. How was he supposed to explain his _unique_ situation, with regards to inspiration? How was he supposed to explain that his writing any more depended on Geralt, without sounding like an utter lunatic?

If he tried to explain, would she even believe him? Would she be _able_ to believe him, when she hadn’t seen it for herself? Even if she _did_ see it for herself – would she forget?

His phone blipped. _He’s not actually going to forget the witcher, is he?_

Before he could text back, another message popped up.

_I mean, you don’t just forget someone you’re in love with, do you?_

Well, wasn’t that a heart-stopping concept.

His fingers hovered over the touchscreen as he considered how to respond. At length, he turned off the screen and dropping his phone onto the bed beside him stared up at the ceiling.

 _Was_ he? Sure, he was attracted to Geralt – unbelievably, dangerously, stomach-churningly attracted – attracted with an intensity he’d never experienced before. But did that translate to being _in love_ with him?

He wanted Geralt to touch him the way he had that night at the club, gentle and loving, and he wanted to touch Geralt gently and lovingly in return. He wanted to run his fingers through his hair and kiss his neck and the inside of his wrists and the scars on his chest. He wanted to hold him.

 _I want to know everything about you._ Had he meant it? Was that really what he wanted?

Yes.

“Ah, fuck,” he said aloud. He put his hands over his face and whimpered into them, “ _fuck_.”

Okay. Okay, so, in terms of immediate priorities, he had to figure out a sensible way to reply to Essi. The ‘I’m in love with someone who never wants to see me again: send help’ problem could wait.

He texted back, _of course he’s not going to forget._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _After the first few months he started catching himself thinking of Geralt like he was someone he’d made up. An action hero he’d invented to write songs about, like what everyone else thought he was. He’d put his fingers to the scars on his neck, the dips where the vampire’s teeth had been, and think 'that was real. That happened.'_

His memories got sort of… slippery. And it was _weird_.

He’d catch himself remembering the werewolf incident and thinking _did that really happen? Did I dream that?_ Like it wasn’t a pivotal event in his life, the night when his entire understanding of the world and what he wanted from it had gone careening off in a new and terrifying direction. He had trouble remembering what the werewolf had looked like.

He’d changed some stuff around, for the songs, to make it more exciting, and he’d catch himself thinking it had _actually_ gone the way he’d written it, even though he knew damn well it hadn’t. He had to sit down with a pad of paper and write it all out, what he remembered, so he could keep it straight in his head.

After the first few months he started catching himself thinking of Geralt like he was someone he’d made up. An action hero he’d invented to write songs about, like what everyone else thought he was.

He’d put his fingers to the scars on his neck, the dips where the vampire’s teeth had been, and think _that was real. That happened_. He’d think of Geralt’s hair dripping on the carpet. Geralt watching Netflix and eating noodles on his sofa. Geralt smelling like his shampoo. _That was real. That happened._

Five – six months after Geralt had _hm_ ’d at him for the last time and walked out of his life, and he had to sit down and read and re-read and re-re-read the notes he’d made when his memories were clearer, because he could _feel_ things getting even slipperier.

He hadn’t believed Geralt when he’d said _you’ll forget me_. He hadn’t understood what Geralt had meant, that he might forget whether he wanted to or not, his memories of the best, most exciting thing that had ever happened to him slipping away from him like smoke dissipating after a fire was stamped out.

He didn’t think he’d forget Geralt altogether. He’d written too many songs about him for that. His face wasn’t fading. The memory of his name wasn’t fading. But there was going to come a time when he didn’t have anything to pin those memories on, and that terrified him.

At least, he thought one night, moodily plucked out chords on his guitar, at least there was a chance Geralt hadn’t _actually_ been as unbelievably handsome as he remembered. He’d bigged Geralt up a _lot_ in his songs. Maybe he’d bigged him up inside his head a bit as well.

It had been seven months, since Geralt had walked out of his life, leaving him with no real explanation and no way to contact him, and as he sat on his sofa, for the third or fourth time wondering if he could at least get a song out of the whole fading memories business, there was a knock on the door. A heavy, angry, _thud, thud, thud_. 

His heart all but stopped in his chest. He sat up straight so fast he almost dropped his guitar, and sat hugging it to his chest, heart thrumming, half convinced he’d imagined it.

It came again. _Thud, thud, thud._

He scrambled to his feet, strangling himself with his guitar strap, and pelted to the door. Trying to compose himself, he looked out the peephole.

It was him. He was really there, standing just outside Jaskier’s front door, only an inch of wood separating them, and he was fumbling for the latch before he could think.

“Geralt,” he blurted out. “What are you –”

Swaying slightly, Geralt rested a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. He was filthy with blood – not monster blood, which he’d shown up at Jaskier’s door plastered with more than once – human blood. There was no mistaking that shade of red, against his skin, against the white of his hair. “You remember me,” he said, and in spite of everything he was _smiling_.

And with him standing there it all came back. Everything that had faded, everything he’d got muddled, all of it slammed back into focus, in perfect surround-sound high definition detail. Geralt really _was_ that handsome. His head span.

Geralt stepped forward, and stumbled.

Jaskier caught him and _fuck_ but he was heavy. “Of course I remember you,” he said. “Geralt – whose blood is that?”

“It’s not mine,” said Geralt. He sounded – hazy. Out of it. Jaskier had never heard him sound like that before.

“What happened?” he said, clutching at the leather of Geralt’s jacket. “Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”

“I’m sorry,” said Geralt. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You can always come here,” said Jaskier. “Do you need help? Do you need me to – call an ambulance, or –”

Geralt was shaking his head. With a grunt of effort he stood upright and stepped into the flat. Inside, away from prying eyes, he sank against the wall.

“I’m calling for help,” said Jaskier, reaching for his phone.

Geralt caught his wrist. “No.”

“You need help,” said Jaskier.

“They can’t help,” said Geralt. “I’m not human, remember.” He was stroking the back of Jaskier’s hand, stroking gentle circles, spreading blood on his skin. “I’m not human.”

Jaskier swallowed. “Are you hurt?”

“Not badly,” said Geralt. “Not sure.”

“What do you need?” said Jaskier.

In the bathroom, underneath the harsh white light, he helped Geralt take off his bloodstained clothes. It had seeped through the chinks in the leather armour he wore. His shirt was probably a lost cause. When he had to move his right arm it was slow and clumsy.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” said Jaskier.

“Not sure,” said Geralt. “Can’t move it properly.”

“Does it hurt?” said Jaskier. There was blood on his hands, and on his own shirt.

Geralt shook his head. “Nothing hurts,” he said. “Not yet.”

“What does that mean?” said Jaskier.

“Later,” said Geralt. He tried to take off his shirt, and winced. “Can you –”

“Of course.” Jaskier eased it over his head. Underneath Geralt’s chest and stomach were bruised to hell and back, but he wasn’t bleeding. Geralt reached for the zip of his trousers. “Do you want me to – go?”

“I don’t care,” said Geralt. He looked up at Jaskier and said, “I can manage. You go.”

“I’ll stay if you need me,” said Jaskier. Geralt looked away, at his bloodied clothes. “I don’t have anything clean that’ll fit you.”

“I have clothes in my bag,” said Geralt. “You should go. Clean yourself up.”

Jaskier looked at his hands. “Right,” he said.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt put a hand atop his, masking the blood on his palms from view. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this here.

“You don’t have anywhere else to go,” said Jaskier.

“That’s not your problem,” said Geralt.

“It is, if I want it to be,” said Jaskier.

“Hm.” Taking his hand away, Geralt reached again for his trousers. “You should go.”

He washed the blood off his hands at the kitchen sink and dried them on a clean part of his shirt. He wondered if he’d ever get the stains out. It was a good shirt. He didn’t want to lose it, he thought numbly.

He went into his bedroom and changed into a bloodless shirt, listening all the while to the sound of the shower running, listening for any sign that Geralt might need his help.

After an endless twenty minutes, the water shut off.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” said Jaskier. Geralt sat beside him on the sofa, chugging water out of a pint glass.

“Pass me my bag,” said Geralt. 

Wordless, Jaskier fetched it for him. Geralt groped through it till he found his medical kit. Unrolling it he opened a pocket Jaskier hadn’t noticed before and took out a bottle of dark liquid. His hands were shaking.

“Are you,” said Jaskier. “Are you coming down?”

“Sort of,” said Geralt. “Not like that.”

“What did you take?” said Jaskier.

“Magic stuff,” said Geralt. “Stops the pain.” Uncorking the bottle he downed the contents and winced, clutching his arm.

“Does it hurt?” said Jaskier, reaching for it.

“A bit.” His teeth gritted, Geralt moved his arm out of Jaskier’s reach. “I think it’s fractured.”

Jaskier didn’t bother suggesting he should see a doctor. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt turned his face away.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he said again.

“Stop saying that,” said Jaskier. “I want you here. For _fuck’s_ sake.”

“I know you do,” said Geralt.

His hair was falling in his face. “Here,” said Jaskier, drawing it back. He grabbed a rubber band from the clutter on the table. “There we are,” he said, tying it up. “That’s better.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. He was more alert now. Whatever haze he’d been in when he’d knocked on the door was passing. “I need a drink.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” said Jaskier. “What did you just take?”

“I told you,” said Geralt. “Magic stuff. I want a drink.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” said Jaskier.

“I don’t know,” said Geralt.

Jaskier fetched him his drink, against his better judgement, and poured one for himself while he was at it.

Geralt downed the vodka and sat toying with the glass, staring off into space. “There was a monster,” he said at length. “I took a hit. I killed it.”

“And the blood?” said Jaskier.

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“I need you to talk to me,” said Jaskier.

“People died,” said Geralt. “I couldn’t stop it. I wasn’t fast enough.” Tilting back his head, he sucked the last few drops out of his glass. “I couldn’t save them.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Jaskier.

“You weren’t there,” said Geralt.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Jaskier. “I know you. I know you did everything you could. You always do.” Geralt was looking at the wall, his face grim. Reaching out Jaskier took the glass from his hand. “You save so many people. You saved me, remember?”

“Hm,” said Geralt. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For what I did.”

“It’s alright,” Jaskier lied.

“No it’s not,” said Geralt. “I shouldn’t have done it. I thought it was for the best.”

“For you or for me?” said Jaskier. He didn’t want to have this conversation – or he did, but not now, when Geralt was so clearly hurting with something so much worse – but the question tumbled out.

“Both,” said Geralt.

“I don’t see how you get to decide what’s best for me,” said Jaskier.

“Hm,” said Geralt, and at that _hm_ something inside Jaskier snapped.

“Seven – seven _fucking_ months, Geralt!” he said. “I thought you weren’t ever coming back and I was so afraid you die and I wouldn’t know because how the _fuck_ would I know, if you died? Cause I don’t have any way to contact you, you’re like this, this _ghost_ who just shows up and plays with my feelings and –” That was too far. He forced himself to stop talking.

“I didn’t mean to play with your feelings,” said Geralt to the wall.

“I know,” said Jaskier. “I know you didn’t.” Geralt wouldn’t do that. Geralt didn’t _feel_ anything for him, not like that. He’d resigned himself to that a long time ago. “I missed you.”

“I thought you’d forget me,” said Geralt.

“I started to,” said Jaskier. And at that – fucking _finally_ – Geralt looked at him. “I could feel it all fading. It was misery.”

“I’m sorry,” said Geralt. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Well, you did,” said Jaskier, and at once he wished he hadn’t. He meant it, but not now, not with Geralt bruised and shivering beside him.

Geralt looked at his shaking hands. Stretching out his fingers he flexed them as if tested they still worked. “Wolves,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“What?” said Jaskier.

“My favourite animal when I was a kid,” said Geralt.

Jaskier set down his glass on the table. Kneeling up on the sofa, he threw his arms around Geralt and held him tight. Geralt gripped his wrist, holding him back, in his own way.

He was still shaking. Jaskier could feel him shaking. He smelled like Jaskier’s shampoo. “Don’t do this to me again,” he said. “Please?”

“I would never hurt you on purpose,” said Geralt. Then he said, “I can’t make you any promises.”

“I know,” said Jaskier, his insides trembling. “I know you can’t.”

*

He’d written eight witcher songs, and he was _definitely_ making an album. He’d been throwing around album names for a couple of weeks.

 _Glad to see you’ve stopped covering break up songs_ , Essi had texted him when the first new song went up. _What was that all about?_

 _Don’t question my artistic vision_ , he shot back.

_You don’t have an artistic vision. You hack._

Well. That raised a smile, in spite of himself.

He had it down to two – well, maybe three – possible album names, the day he ran into Geralt out in the wild, which was a rare occurrence. He wasn’t sure where Geralt went when he wasn’t at Jaskier’s flat, but whatever weird monster-fighting circles he moved in didn’t overlap with Jaskier’s much. They’d run into each other in Tesco once, which had been odd and sort of uncomfortable.

That afternoon he ran into Geralt on his way back from a friend’s, on a side street. He was wearing his sunglasses, and carrying – _something_ in a bin bag.

“Geralt!” said Jaskier from across the street. Geralt looked up, startled and a bit furtive, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Jaskier crossed the street and joined him. “What’s up?” 

“Nothing,” said Geralt. “What are you doing here?”

“Walking,” said Jaskier. The bag, now that he was up close, smelled peculiar. A very bad peculiar. “Um. What’ve you got there?”

Geralt looked at the bag. “Head,” he offered.

“A _head_?” said Jaskier. “What kind of head?”

Geralt looked again at the bag. He opened it and held it out, inviting Jaskier to look inside.

He looked. He instantly regretted not only looking, but every single one of his life choices that had led him to a place where he was looking at _that_. “Oh, _god_ ,” he said, gagging. “Geralt, what the fuck? What _is_ that?”

“Necrophage,” said Geralt, fastening the bag.

“ _Why_ did you show me?” said Jaskier. “Why couldn’t you just have said, _it’s really gross and will haunt your dreams for the next three to five years?_ ”

“Would you have listened?” said Geralt.

“I might’ve,” said Jaskier. “Can I. See it again?”

Geralt showed him again.

“Oh – yeah,” he said. “Just as bad the second time.” He waited as Geralt tied the bag securely shut, and said, “so, where are you and your head going?”

Geralt looked around himself, as if someone might be listening. “I’m going to sell it.”

“Sell it?” said Jaskier. “To who? Is there a market in monster heads I don’t know about?”

“Not here,” said Geralt.

“You mean you don’t want to talk about it here or the market isn’t here?” said Jaskier.

“Both,” said Geralt. Then he said, “are you busy?”

“That depends entirely on if your reasons for asking are head-related,” said Jaskier.

“They aren’t head-related,” said Geralt.

“Oh, thank god,” said Jaskier.

“Can I buy you lunch?” said Geralt.

“Geralt, your company is always a delight and a blessing to me,” said Jaskier. “But I’m not going anywhere with you while you’re toting that head around. Can we do this later?”

“I don’t have a buyer for the necrophage head yet,” said Geralt. “I’ll be away for a few days. Maybe longer. Can we go to your flat? We can talk there.”

“I’m _definitely_ not having the head anywhere near my home where I eat and sleep and relax,” said Jaskier.

“Hm.” Geralt looked at the bag. “Excuse me,” he said, and wandered off down an alley. There was a sound of something bulky falling into a bin, and he returned. “I’ll come back for it later.”

“Cool,” said Jaskier. He dug in his bag for some hand sanitiser, and proffered it.

“Thanks,” said Geralt.

Geralt brought them both wraps on the way back to Jaskier’s flat, and let him rattle on about album titles, which Jaskier sensed he didn’t actually give two shits about. He didn’t raise the subject of monsters again till they were safely indoors.

“Do I get a necrophage story, then?” he said, perched on the arm of his sofa.

“Maybe when I come back,” said Geralt.

“Yeah, about that,” said Jaskier. “Where are you going? Exactly?”

Geralt opened up his second wrap. “I’m going to sell the head.”

“Yeah but where,” said Jaskier. “Like. Geographically.”

“It’s not a matter of geography,” said Geralt. “I’m going to the other side of the gate.”

 _That_ was something. One of those titbits Geralt would drop every so often about what his deal was, like _mutant_ and _active zone_. He slid off the sofa arm onto the sofa, and said, “the gate?”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“Is,” said Jaskier, grasping at shadows, “is the gate how the monsters are getting in?”

Geralt shot him a look. “Yeah,” he said. “Well guessed.”

“Do I get a prize?” said Jaskier. “What’s on the other side of the gate?”

Geralt was stolidly eating his wrap.

“Why do I try and have these conversations with you when you’re eating,” said Jaskier. “You’re like _ohhh I’ve got my mouth full, can’t possibly expect me to talk and eat at the same time._ ”

Geralt grunted. Jaskier nudged him with his foot. “What’s the gate?”

“It’s not a physical gate,” said Geralt.

“I figured,” said Jaskier.

“Look,” said Geralt, “there’s some things which are best kept secret –”

“You can tell _me!_ ” Jaskier protested.

“And I don’t trust you not to put it in one of your songs,” finished Geralt.

“Fine,” said Jaskier. “I, I swear on my artistic integrity not to put anything about the gate in my music. Are you happy now? Not that it matters because everyone _absolutely_ thinks I made you up. They think you’re fictional. What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s hilarious,” said Geralt, deadpan.

“Of course you do,” said Jaskier. “What’s the gate? Come _on_.”

“The gate is what makes this city an active zone,” said Geralt. “It’s how the monsters get in.”

“Okay, but you realise you’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know, right?” said Jaskier. “Are there monsters on the other side of the gate? Are you going to sell the monster head to a monster? Do they have a monster eBay over there?”

“They don’t have eBay,” said Geralt.

“Well, that’s something,” said Jaskier. “Monsters, and no eBay. Is that all I get?”

Geralt grunted.

“Why are you telling me about the gate if you’re not actually going to tell me about the gate?” said Jaskier.

“It’s not a safe journey,” said Geralt. “If I don’t come back I want you to know why.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier, insides going very heavy. “Okay.”

“I got the impression you wanted to know,” said Geralt.

“I mean,” said Jaskier. “Yeah. I guess.” He poked Geralt again. “If it’s so dangerous why are you going?”

“I need the money,” said Geralt. 

“Oh, my god,” said Jaskier. “Is _that_ how you make your money? Cutting off monster heads and, and selling them on the other side of the gate?”

Geralt shrugged.

“I mean I’d offer to help you out but I don’t have any money either,” said Jaskier.

“It pays well,” said Geralt. “Sporadically.”

“Of course,” said Jaskier.

Geralt stuffed the last of his wrap into his mouth, and said, “I should go. Before someone finds the head.”

“ _God_ ,” said Jaskier. “The head. I don’t want you to go but I really do want it to fuck off this mortal plane.”

“It will,” said Geralt, rising.

“You mean now?” said Jaskier. “You’re going right now? Are you on a schedule or something?”

“I want to get it over with,” said Geralt.

“Okay,” said Jaskier. “Okay.” Geralt was moving towards the door. “Be careful?”

“Always am,” said Geralt.”

*

He called the album _New Monster Stories_. It had been online for a little over a month, the night Geralt called him and gruffly invited him to dinner and he found himself sitting in a café at close to midnight, eating a cheeseburger he didn’t really want.

“So it’s like, a bigger ghoul?” he said, absently making notes in his songbook.

“It’s not just bigger, it’s –” Geralt glowered at the songbook. “What are you writing?”

“Just jotting down some thoughts,” said Jaskier. He closed his songbook and put his hand atop it before Geralt could snatch it away – not that, realistically, he could stop him.

“I thought you finished it,” said Geralt.

“I can do a follow-up,” said Jaskier.

“Hm,” said Geralt, and went back to his cheeseburger.

“Oh, c’mon,” said Jaskier. “Don’t clam up on me now.” He kicked Geralt under the table.

“Is this the only reason you spend time with me?” said Geralt.

“Eh?” said Jaskier.

“So you can sell your music,” said Geralt.

“Of course not,” said Jaskier. “That’s just a perk, for spending time with your lovely self.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. He glanced up, and putting down his burger reached for his sunglasses.

The girl from behind the counter was coming over. Jaskier straightened up, and smiled, and hoped intensely that they weren’t about to be kicked out for the crime of Geralt being so filthy. “Evening,” he said. “Can I help you? I haven’t outstayed my welcome, have I?”

“No – no,” she said, weirdly nervous. “It’s just – I hope you don’t mind, but you’re Jaskier, aren’t you?”

“Um. Yes?” he said.

Her face broke into a smile. “I _thought_ it was you!” she said. “I follow you on Instagram.”

“Ohh?” he said. This was a rare event. Actually, it had only happened once before. Across the table, Geralt resumed eating.

“I loved your album,” she said. She glanced vaguely at Geralt, and there was an uneasy moment when Jaskier thought she might recognise _him_. There weren’t any pictures of him online – as far as Jaskier knew, anyway – but he’d given a rough description in the album and Geralt’s whole _thing_ was distinctive.

But like everyone else she looked away as if Geralt was part of the furniture, and said, “I hope you don’t mind me coming over –”

“Not at all,” said Jaskier. “It’s always a joy to meet a fan – especially such a charming one.”

She beamed. “I just wanted to say,” she said. “I know everyone raves about the monsters but I was in it for the love story.”

“Oh?” said Jaskier.

“It made me cry,” she said.

He was _very_ aware that on the other side of the table Geralt had stopped eating. “Well that’s, um,” he said. “Good! That’s what I was going for.”

“Are you going to do any more?” she said. “Or is it finished? Not that I didn’t like the ending – I liked how open you left it –”

“Well that depends,” said Jaskier. “On, um.” He glanced at Geralt, who was watching him, face unreadable. “Well, inspiration is a fickle beast,” he said, and laughed. “And actually, um, we are sort of in the middle of something here, so –”

He shouldn’t have said _we_. She looked over at Geralt and this time she definitely saw him. She frowned, as if she couldn’t quite make sense of what she was looking at, and turned back to Jaskier. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to let you know –”

“It’s fine,” said Jaskier. “I appreciate it. Really.”

Again she glanced at Geralt. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, hesitant, as if she still wasn’t sure whether or not he was alone.

“Have a great night!” Jaskier said as she left.

They sat, for a very long moment, in silence. He toyed with the corner of his songbook.

“Love story?” said Geralt.

“Um,” said Jaskier. He had no idea how to answer that question. He wasn’t even sure it _was_ a question. “Yeah.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. There was a drawn-out, considering pause. Jaskier’s mouth went dry.

Then without another word Geralt stood and made for the door.

“Geralt,” said Jaskier, turning in his seat, twisting around to follow him. “Geralt – can we –”

The door swung closed behind him. He was gone. Again.

Jaskier shoved his plate away and thumped his head against the table. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk_. “Fuck,” he said to himself. “ _Fuck_.”

“Are you okay?” called the girl from the counter.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, not raising his head.

After a moment, she said, “was that –”

“Mm-hm,” said Jaskier.

“But –”

Lifting his head from the table, he said to her, “don’t think about it too hard.”

*

“So are you going to do another one?” said Essi.

“I don’t know,” said Jaskier, leaning on the kitchen worktop. At his elbow the microwave hummed, gently rotating his leftovers.

“C’mon, stop being so cagey,” she said. “I know you have a plan.”

“I don’t have a plan,” he said. He felt a bit shaky, inside. People kept asking him about the album and what he was going to do next, usually on social media, and on social media he could handle it. In a real life phone conversation it was different. Lying, out loud, was different. He put his head in his hand and said, “I don’t _know_ , Essi. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Are you okay?”

“No,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” she said. “Did something happen?”

“It’s a long story,” he said. The microwave dinged. He opened the door to shut it up and ignored his leftovers.

“You can tell me,” she said.

“I really don’t know if I can,” he said. “Look, I.” He wavered for moment. “Okay. You know my album?”

“The thing you’ve been working on for the last two years and won’t shut up about?” she said. “That we were talking about like, just now? Yeah, I know your album.”

“What would you said if I told you it was all true?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The stories,” he said. “In the album. They’re true.”

Quiet on the line. “No, they’re not.”

“Yees, they are,” he said. “I didn’t make any of it up. I mean, I embellished. But they all happened. More or less. And the witcher, he’s real, he’s a real person and he just found out I’m in love with him and, um, wrote a whole album about how in love with him I am and put it on the internet and now he’s stopped speaking to me. Again. And I don’t know what to do.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” she said.

“My love life,” he said.

“So, okay,” she said. “Are you trying to say you based the witcher on a real person?”

“Well, sort of,” said Jaskier.

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“He’s a real person but he actually is a witcher,” said Jaskier. “He hunts monsters, professionally.”

“Nope, you’ve lost me again,” she said. “Are we talking about a real person? Or the fictional character you made up?”

“I didn’t make anything up!” Jaskier protested. “His name is Geralt and he smells _very_ weird, all the time, and he uses my shower a lot, and I once watched him eat a cheeseburger off the pavement and somehow didn’t get _any_ less attracted to him, because he is just _majestically_ sexy, Essi.” He paused for breath. “You would not believe how handsome this man is, if you saw him. He’s the handsomest man in the world. I’m madly in love with him and I told the entire internet in musical form before I told him so now I think he might be angry with me which is fair enough, only I _did_ tell him, sort of, he just, he turned me down.” He took another breath. “He turned me down. Um. Two years ago. I don’t think he – well, not with me, anyway.”

“Jaskier, are you okay?” she said. “What are you on about?”

“The witcher, and how much of a real person he is,” said Jaskier.

“Right,” said Essi. “And his name is – Geralt?”

“Yup,” said Jaskier.

“That’s not a real name,” said Essi.

“Actually I think it’s Irish but we’re getting off track,” said Jaskier. 

“So you based the witcher on a real person,” said Essi. “Called Geralt. And you didn’t tell him?”

“No, he knew I was writing songs about him, he just didn’t know I was professing my love for him on the internet,” said Jaskier. “I don’t think he knows how to use the internet. As far as I can tell he’s just a free-range monster hunter.”

“Meaning…?”

“He hunts and kills monsters,” said Jaskier. “Like in the album.”

“I think you’re getting confused,” she said.

“I’m not confused!” said Jaskier. “Or well, I am. But not about the monster stuff. That happened.”

“They’re not real, Jask,” she said. “You made them up.”

“Nooo, I didn’t,” he said. “C’mon, since when am I that creative? You used to live here. Didn’t you ever notice how many people go missing in this city?”

“People go missing all the time,” she said.

“Not _this_ many!” he said. “It’s because of the monsters. Monsters are eating people and they have some kind of – mind whammy that stops anyone noticing.”

“You need to calm down,” she said.

“A werewolf almost killed me,” he said. “I nearly died. It was terrifying.”

“Werewolves aren’t real,” she said.

“They are so!” he said. “I saw one! Christ, Essi – I got bitten by a vampire. Remember? I wrote a song about it. I have a scar.” He put his fingers to his neck, finding the scar. “I’m touching it right now. Next time you’re in town I’m going to show you my vampire bite scar.”

She was quite for a long moment. “I think you need to talk to a doctor,” she said.

“I don’t need to talk to a doctor,” he said. “I just want to have a proper talk with you about my love life.”

“You’re very stressed out,” she said.

“I’m not stressed out!” he said. “Well, I am, but not _that_ kind of stressed out. Essi, please, I need you to believe me that this all happened. I need _someone_ to believe me.”

“Take some deep breaths.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted.

“You’re not fine,” she said. “You’re freaking out.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Will you at least trust me when I say that Geralt is a real person?”

“Sure,” said Essi. “What’s his last name?”

“It’s never come up,” said Jaskier. “I get the feeling he doesn’t have one.”

“And he ate a cheeseburger off the pavement?” she said.

“Well, he dropped it on the pavement and picked it up and ate it,” said Jaskier. “He didn’t just like, find one lying around and eat it. Though to be honest I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Am I allowed to meet him?”

“That could be an issue as he may never speak to me again and I have no way of contacting him,” said Jaskier. “When he wants to see me he calls me from phone boxes. Also I don’t know if you’d be able to perceive him.”

“Oh, my god,” she moaned. “Jask. I’m _begging_ you. Please talk to a doctor.”

“You’re no help,” he said, and hung up the phone.

He regarded his phone for a moment. Then he threw it hard at the sofa and leaning on the worktop _screamed_ into his hands.

*

It had been a week since Geralt had walked out on him – _again_ – and Jaskier hadn’t heard from him, though that wasn’t necessarily cause for concern, _yet_. Geralt kept in touch only sporadically. Jaskier had picked up the hazy impression that he didn’t often have change for phone calls.

He’d texted Essi to apologise for his ‘stress-induced breakdown’ and she had, uneasily, accepted that he was okay. He had gone back to dealing with the situation through his time-honoured strategy of ‘pretending everything is fine’.

He was on the bus one afternoon, on his way home from work, responding to tweets.

_You can’t make a sword out of silver. It’s too soft. Do your research next time._

_Hi!_ he tweeted back. _Thanks for reaching out. 1) it’s fantasy. 2) the silver sword has a steel core and silver edges._ Send tweet.

Just as he hit _send_ , there was a deafening roar like an explosion and his bus lurched to a halt.

He sat clutching the seat in front, heart pounding, thinking about how close he’d just come to a broken nose and how much _that_ would have sucked. It was only when he became aware of people getting to their feet around him, a sudden thrum of conversation, cries of alarm, that it registered with him that they’d stopped for a reason. He looked out the window.

He saw a row of shopfronts, absolutely destroyed, broken glass and signs and clothes and food strewn across the street. He saw a car, upside down. A bewildered police officer.

Atop the terrace, a spiny, scaly thing the size of the bus. Sinuous, with long claws that screeched and grated across the roof tiles, tattered wings that trailed down its back, a long, lashing tail like a snake. As he watched, with one clawed hand it ripped a chimney from the roof and tossed it down into the road like a child with a toy. It opened its mouth, and again it bellowed.

Then it began to rip and tear at the roof, scattering tiles and chunks of beam, till it had made a hole large enough to worm and wiggle its body through. _Well_ , Jaskier thought, looking at the building crowd of bystanders, the stopped cars, the police officer, _that’s the cat out of the bag_.

He saw, standing on the pavement before the destroyed shops, an achingly familiar leather-clad figure.

Geralt glanced briefly at the road, his eyes passing over the bus, though Jaskier didn’t think Geralt saw him. Then he drew his sword and strode on into the building, stepping through a broken shop window and vanishing into the shadows.

“Oh, _fuck_ no,” Jaskier said aloud, and before he could think he was scrambling for the bus doors.

“Stay on the bus, sir,” said the driver.

“Open the doors,” he said.

“Sir, sit down.”

Shaking his head, Jaskier hit the emergency button and ignoring the driver’s calls for him to stay put jumped down onto the street.

He was halfway to the building before his brain caught up with his feet. What was he going to do to help, really? He had a rucksack with his wallet and his water bottle and his songbook in it. He had _no_ combat skills. Geralt had two entire swords and untold years of experience.

But he was still only one person and he couldn’t possibly take on something that size on his own. Somebody had to go over there and talk some sense into him, drag him back out onto the street where it was safe-ish to wait for the army or whoever to come and deal with this.

And nobody else knew that Geralt existed, so it was going to have to be him. At a run, he made for the shopfront. Someone shouted at him to stop, but he steadfastly ignored them. He reached the shopfront and didn’t pause to think about his next move, in case he changed his mind. He scrambled through the window, avoiding the jagged ring of broken windowpane, got his footing on the glass-strewn floor beyond, and –

He took one step, and blinked in the sudden light.

He wasn’t standing in a destroyed shop. He was standing in a ruined castle. The air was cold, the wind picking at his hair. The walls stretched up around him, craggy, open to the icy blue sky. Looking behind him he saw more castle.

It was quiet. There was no sign of Geralt, or of the monster, or of anyone else for that matter. And something was _very_ weird – besides the fact of his having stepped through a window on an ordinary high street and found himself in a castle, something was weird. The sky was – _off_. The shape and colour of the clouds wasn’t quite right. The air smelled different. All of it felt _different._

 _Ah_ , he thought. _That’s what the gate is._

There was a pointed archway in the wall ahead, and he made for it. On the other side the walls dropped away into the hillside and he stood on the grass, looking out over the vista of hills and moorland. There was a moon hanging in the sky. It wasn’t his moon. In the distance he could see another tower, with brightly-coloured flags flying.

He wasn’t sure what’d pictured when Geralt had started on about the gate. In retrospect it had been obvious, but it hadn’t really occurred to him that it must lead to a whole other world.

Because it _was_ a whole other world. He knew that instinctively. This was all frighteningly, viscerally real, and it went on forever, just as his own world did; just in a different, weirder direction.

“Jaskier!”

Turning he saw Geralt striding through the archway, and for a second he was speechless with relief.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt grabbed him by the shoulders. “What are you _doing_?”

“I followed you,” said Jaskier. “Geralt –”

“Why’d you –” said Geralt. He shook his head. “It’s not safe here. You need to go back.” He began to drag Jaskier bodily towards the archway.

“Hey – stop that!” said Jaskier. “I came to help you.”

“ _How_?” said Geralt. They reached the archway and Jaskier clung to it, refusing to be sent back quite so easily.

“You can’t fight that thing on your own,” said Jaskier.

“I know what I’m doing,” said Geralt. “You have to go back through the gate.”

“Not without you,” said Jaskier.

“I can handle this,” said Geralt.

“Please,” said Jaskier, “ _please_ let someone else handle it – just this once?”

“There isn’t anyone else,” said Geralt.

There was another deafening roar, shaking the stones around them. Jaskier looked up but couldn’t see it – it was hidden behind the walls, or maybe it was on the other side of the gate and the sound of it was travelling across worlds.

While he was reeling Geralt pried his hand free of the archway and manhandled him towards the gate. “You can’t be here,” said Geralt. “This place – there’s no time to explain, you can’t linger here.”

“What do you mean?” said Jaskier.

“There’s no time,” said Geralt. “I’ll explain later.”

“You never explain anything,” said Jaskier. “And there won’t be a later if that _thing_ eats you!”

“It’s not going to eat me,” said Geralt. “I’ve fought bigger.” They were almost at the gate. He couldn’t see it but he could feel it. It tugged at him, pulling him backwards like he was standing on a ledge, teetering, about to fall. 

Hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, Geralt turned him to face him properly and said, “don’t be afraid.”

And he said it so warmly, so earnestly, that Jaskier was rendered speechless. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll go.” Geralt let him go and made to draw back, but Jaskier caught his arm. “Wait.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, a silent _we don’t have time for this_ following his name.

“I’m _really_ sorry about the album,” Jaskier gabbled.

And maybe that was why he’d followed, really. Because this might be his last chance to speak to Geralt, and there were things he _had_ to say. But he couldn’t find any of them, now that he was standing there with only moments to speak; that was all he could think of, _I’m sorry about the album_.

Geralt studied him for a moment. Taking Jaskier’s face in his hands, he said, “Jaskier. What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

Then he drew Jaskier’s face close to his, and kissed his jawline, just below his ear; and at that brief contact a shiver went through him and every thought fell out of his head.

“I –” he stuttered.

“Go.” Geralt gave him a last shove in the right direction.

“Right,” said Jaskier. “Okay.” Not taking his eyes off Geralt he stepped backwards through the gate, and the world went dark around him.

He was standing in the remains of a corner shop. His hand went, semi-consciously, to the place where Geralt had kissed him. He could still feel his lips on his skin. _Oh_ , he thought. _Oh, wow_.

*

He sat on the curb for a long time, the cement cold even through his jeans. The police were still milling about, but they didn’t pay any attention to him. The bystanders had moved on. A tow truck came and took away the wrecked car. It rained a little.

It was as if as soon as the monster slipped out sight beyond the gate, it had faded from everyone’s minds. They knew the building was wrecked. They didn’t seem to care to know why.

Two hours, by his phone clock, two hours after he had come back through the gate, he heard a scrunching of broken glass, and looking up he saw Geralt, climbing out the window.

Jaskier was on his feet in a heartbeat, running towards him, and Geralt’s arms opened for him. He threw his arms around Geralt and Geralt hugged him back and for a joyous moment his feet weren’t touching the ground.

He slipped back down to earth, Geralt’s arms still around him. They were nose to nose, and he found himself staring into Geralt’s eyes. His pupils were blown up huge and Jaskier’s heart was fluttering, and he was _soaringly_ happy, he had to either laugh or kiss Geralt, and how could he _not_ kiss him? How could he not?

Closing the distance between their mouths he kissed Geralt, and Geralt kissed back, fiercely, groaning. His tongue, dancing in and out of Jaskier’s mouth. His hand, on the back of Jaskier’s head. _God_ , but he wanted Geralt’s hands on him. He wanted Geralt’s hands everywhere, wanted his mouth, everywhere.

He looped his arms around Geralt’s neck and kissed him harder, catching his lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it, and Geralt grunted, his other hand going to the small of Jaskier’s back, pulling him still closer, and Jaskier thought he might _melt_.

Geralt’s fingers tangled with his hair, his grip tightening, tugging him back, and with a mumble of protest Jaskier drew away.

“Sorry,” said Geralt, fingers still in his hair.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier. It was fair enough. They were out on the street. The police were watching. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Geralt. “Better, now.”

He wasn’t out of breath, somehow, in spite of having fought a giant monster and then kissed Jaskier breathless. “Uh-huh,” Jaskier breathed. “You’re not angry?”

“No,” said Geralt. His fingers were stroking Jaskier’s scalp, making little circles. “Not at all.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. “Want to come back to mine?”

“I think,” said Geralt, “I want to get washed up.”

“Yeah?” said Jaskier.

Geralt brushed his hair out of his face. “And then I want to make love to you.”

“Oh yes _please_ ,” said Jaskier in a rush, and Geralt laughed, and kissed his cheek. “I have – a lot of questions. Just so you know.”

“I know,” said Geralt.

“Did you kill it?” said Jaskier.

“Yes,” said Geralt.

“Good,” said Jaskier. “Good for you.” He wanted to go back to his flat, and do all of the things he’d been imagining doing with Geralt for the past – many months. And then he wanted to ask about a million questions about the gate and what was beyond it.

But first he wanted to breathe. He touched his forehead to Geralt’s, and closed his eyes, and breathed.

“Hm?” said Geralt.

“Hm,” he agreed.

*

Drifting about his flat, waiting for Geralt to be done in the shower, was familiar territory. It felt normal, usually. Almost domestic.

But this time was different. This time when Geralt was done they were probably – almost certainly – going to fuck. This was a monumental event. He’d been waiting the best part of two years for this. He’d written an entire album of songs full of veiled and not-so-veiled references to how much he wanted this.

And now that it came to it, he had _no_ idea what to do. He wandered around his bedroom, tidying up his bedsheets and fluffing his pillows, picked up the clothes from his floor and threw them into the laundry hamper.

Should he _undress_? It wasn’t like it would be presumptuous, under the circumstances, Geralt having been _very_ clear about what he wanted. But now that he thought of it Geralt would be taking some time to reflect in the shower, and it wasn’t impossible he’d change his mind, and that would be straight-up mortifying.

So. No undressing. He had condoms and lube in the top drawer of his bedside table, and he set them out, then put them away again for much the same reasons he’d decided against undressing. It was still light outside. He shut the curtains.

He got out his phone and paced from the window to the door, absently scrolling through Twitter. After a while he came to rest leaning in the doorway, half-watching the frosted glass of the bathroom door and the shadow moving behind it.

“Did you know,” he said at the sound of the latch, “ _no-one_ is talking about what happened today?”

“Hm?” said Geralt.

“Giant monster the size of the bus destroys a building and not one tweet about it,” he said. “Wild, huh?”

He looked up at Geralt, who was standing in the bathroom doorway, his hair damp, staring at Jaskier as if to say _really? This is what you want to talk about? **Now?**_ He was dressed, in as much as he’d put his shirt and trousers back on. Maybe he’d had the same dilemma as Jaskier.

“Sorry,” he said, and switching off the screen he shoved his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll shut up.”

In two strides Geralt joined him in the bedroom doorway. He rested one hand on the doorframe by Jaskier’s head, and loomed there, and Jaskier was very aware very suddenly of just _how_ toned his arms were.

The back of his hand stroking Jaskier’s face, a soft, slow movement from his ear down to his chin. “Are we going to do this?” he said.

“I, um,” said Jaskier.

“Speechless?” said Geralt, smiling at him.

“ _Fuck_.” Jaskier lolled his head back against the doorframe.

Geralt – the fucker – began to laugh, and then his lips were on Jaskier’s, kissing him again; soft, at first, his fingers still stroking Jaskier’s face, and then _hungry_. Jaskier grabbed a fistful of his shirt, tugging him closer, and Geralt groaned into his mouth, cupping his chin, tilting his head to the side to get more, _deeper_.

And good as this was, getting the living daylights snogged out of him up against the doorframe, he’d been waiting two entire years to get Geralt in his bed and he wasn’t putting it off a moment longer than he had to. He pulled away.

“ _Hmh_ –” Geralt protested.

“Take me to bed, you bastard,” Jaskier said against his mouth.

“Uh-huh,” said Geralt. And then putting both hands on Jaskier’s arse he scooped him up like he weighed nothing at all, and Jaskier threw his arms around his neck and clung there.

Two steps to the bed, and Geralt threw him down on the mattress, actually threw him, like he was about to ravish him, and Jaskier was _fully_ in favour of that. Geralt climbed onto the bed, crawling on top of him, cupping his face for another kiss.

“ _Wow_ ,” said Jaskier between kisses. “You are _strong_.”

“Mm-hm,” Geralt agreed.

He ran his hand along Geralt’s arm, feeling his bicep. “Do I weigh _anything_ to you?”

“Not really,” said Geralt, kissing his jaw, his neck.

“Oh, woww,” he said as Geralt kissed a wet path up to his ear. He thought he might actually be going to melt into the bed. He wasn’t entirely sure his head was still attached to his body.

Geralt was making _noises_ as he explored his neck, soft murmurs of enjoyment, and this was _too_ good to be really happening to him, but it _was_. “I want you to know,” he said, basking under Geralt’s affections, “I’ve masturbated about you a _lot_.”

“Mmm,” hummed Geralt, right up against his ear. “Me too,” he said, and taking Jaskier’s earlobe in his mouth he sucked on it.

“Ahh,” said Jaskier. Geralt’s tongue, was in his ear. It was distracting. “Can we. Can we pause on that, for a moment?”

“Hm?” Geralt raised his head, looking so bewildered at being interrupted that Jaskier almost didn’t want to ask. _Almost_.

“You masturbate about me?” he said.

Geralt stroked Jaskier’s hair back from his face. “Yeah,” he said, and kissed him again.

“Could you, ah,” said Jaskier, breath hitching as Geralt’s tongue traced the shell of his ear. “Be more specific? I’m gonna – I’m gonna need some details on that.”

“The way you smell,” Geralt rumbled, burying his face in his neck. “Your hands. The noises you’d make.” He kissed Jaskier’s neck and bit down, just enough for him to feel it, and Jaskier moaned aloud. “Yeah,” said Geralt, “like that.”

Reaching down his hand roamed over Jaskier’s stomach, and lower, grabbing his dick through his jeans and squeezing. “ _Ah_ ,” said Jaskier, grabbing for Geralt’s arms, his shoulders.

“Yeah, just like that,” said Geralt, still squeezing, working him with one _unreasonably_ large hand. His other hand was in Jaskier’s hair, pulling him over for another kiss.

He shuddered into the kiss, overwhelmed, Geralt all around him, pinning him to the bed. “ _Mmf_ ,” he said into Geralt’s mouth. “Geralt.” Reaching down he took him by the wrist and tugged his hand away. “You need to stop that unless you want me to come before I get my trousers off.”

“What if I do?” said Geralt, hand resting twitchy on Jaskier’s thigh.

“Well, then we’ll have to take a break,” said Jaskier, “cause I _really_ want you to rail me.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, a considering, _teasing_ hm, like he was weighing it up.

“Oh, for the love of – get _off_ ,” said Jaskier, shoving at Geralt’s shoulders till he knelt up.

He sat up and tugging off his jacket through it across the room. “We _are_ going to fuck,” he said, wriggling out of his shirt. “And _you_ aren’t going to – hey!”

Geralt yanked his shirt over his head and kissed him again, fiercely, long and hot enough that he completely lost his train of thought.

“ _Hey_ ,” he said, drawing away. “Don’t get cute with me.” Geralt was stroking his hair, and his eyes were _very_ dark, his pupils blown out huge, and Jaskier couldn’t hold in a giggle.

“What?” said Geralt.

“You,” said Jaskier.

“What is it?”

“You have kitty eyes,” said Jaskier, and dissolved into giggles.

“I do _not_ ,” said Geralt. 

“You’re all excited,” said Jaskier.

“Shush,” said Geralt, and kissed him, and as he leaned forward Jaskier felt just _how_ excited he was, and a shudder went through him. That was for him. That was _his_.

“ _Mmft_ ,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Geralt.

“Take your shirt off.”

“Yeah,” said Geralt, and he tugged it over his head in a single effortless motion that made Jaskier’s stomach turn over.

“Wow,” he said, eyes ranging over Geralt’s chest. He’d seen him with his shirt off before, but this was different; this was open, and freely given, and complete. “ _Wow_ ,” he said, reaching out to trace the long, curving scar that cut across Geralt’s belly. “What did _that_ to you?”

Geralt caught his hand. “Not now.”

“Should I not touch?” said Jaskier.

“You can touch,” said Geralt.

Jaskier’s searching fingers traced another scar, a heavy, raised one below his clavicle. “Will I get the stories later?”

“Maybe,” said Geralt, half-smiling. “Will you put them into another album?”

“Maybe,” said Jaskier. “A whole album about your scars. For our ears only.”

“We’ll see,” said Geralt. A hand low on Jaskier’s chest he pushed him back down onto the bed and kissed him long and wet, and Jaskier ran his fingers over the scars on Geralt’s shoulder, where the wyvern had taken a chunk out of him and he’d bandaged it up, and the memory _ached_. “You really want me to fuck you?” said Geralt, drawing back.

“God, _yes_ ,” said Jaskier, reaching down, groping to unzip his jeans. “Lube’s in the top drawer.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, reaching for the bedside table.

He got a decent grip on his jeans at last and shoved them down, wriggling out of them and out of his underwear before reaching for Geralt. He ran his hand over Geralt’s thigh, creeping higher, indulging for a moment in the feel of leather against his skin. “Oof, you’re a big boy,” he said.

Geralt batted his hand away and unfastened his trousers, and Jaskier’s eyes grew steadily wider. “Ohh, you’re a monster,” he said. He shouldn’t be surprised, given how huge the rest of Geralt was. He wrapped a hand around Geralt’s cock, just to feel him, and Geralt grunted.

“That a problem?” he said.

“That’s the farthest thing from a problem,” said Jaskier, jerking him slowly, enjoying the soft, desperate sounds it drew out of him. “That is the precise opposite of a problem.”

Geralt’s hand, in his hair, dragging him up for a kiss, and he groaned into Geralt’s mouth, every thought skittering out of his head.

“What do you want?” said Geralt, achingly long minutes later, naked above him. He stroked Jaskier’s sweat-damp hair away from his forehead. “Hm?”

“You know what I want,” said Jaskier. Geralt’s arm, underneath him, lifting his hips, positioning him, and he was _acutely_ aware in that moment of how strong Geralt was, aware that he could do whatever he wanted with his body. Biting his lip Jaskier lolled his head back against the pillows. “ _Fuck_.” He wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist.

“Tell me what you want,” said Geralt, his cock pressing up against the inside of his thigh.

“I want you to fuck my brains out,” said Jaskier, words tumbling out of him in a rush. He was _so_ hard, he could feel his blood pulsing in his ears, he didn’t think he’d wanted anything as badly in his life.

“Hm,” said Geralt, a soft grunt of acknowledgement. He stroked Jaskier’s hair again and then reaching down between their bodies he lined himself up and pushed forward and _in_ , and Jaskier was going to die, he was either going to come right there or he was going to _die_.

“Fuck, _Geralt_ ,” he said, hands flailing for purchase on the headboard.

“Yeah,” said Geralt, drawing back, thrusting in again, a little deeper. “You like that?”

“Jesus Christ,” said Jaskier, gritting his teeth as Geralt repeated the motion, drawing back, rocking in deeper. He got a good grip on the headboard at last and tried to breathe. “God, you’re big.” Geralt slid a little deeper. His toes curled. “ _Fuck_ me,” he gasped. “Will you _just_ –”

“Like this?” said Geralt, rolling his hips, in and out, getting a rhythm going, not enough, not _nearly_ enough.

“Deeper,” he said.

“Hmm,” said Geralt, a low, rumbling sound he could feel in his chest. “Open your eyes.” His hand, on Jaskier’s face. “Jaskier. I wanna see your eyes.”

He opened his eyes, blinking, staring up at Geralt, the muscles moving in his chest, his damp hair, his eyes, black, a hint of gold around the edges.

“There you are,” said Geralt, and he thrust in properly, their bodies flush together, and Jaskier cried out.

“Fuck,” he said. His grip on the headboard was getting slippery, his hands sweating. “Fuck, you’re _huge_.”

“Need a moment?” said Geralt.

“Absolutely not,” said Jaskier, and adjusting his grip he squeezed his thighs tighter around Geralt’s waist and shoved back against his cock.

And Geralt groaned aloud, and finally, _finally_ began to fuck him properly, the bed creaking, and Jaskier said, “mmph,” and, “ _fuck_ ,” and then for a few minutes he couldn’t manage any words. Geralt grunted softly each time he thrust in, grunted and gasped and sighed, coming from him that was practically a symphony.

He found his tongue. “ _Harder_ ,” he said. “Geralt – harder – oh god, please – _yes_ –”

“You like that?” said Geralt.

“God, yes,” said Jaskier, trying to get a better grip, get some leverage, shift his hips around so he could get Geralt in him at the right angle to – _fuck_ yes.

“Like that?” said Geralt, adjusting his grip on Jaskier, his hand slipping lower, cupping his arse.

“Oh yes,” said Jaskier. “Exactly like that – _Geralt_ – please – oh, please –”

“That’s it, darling,” said Geralt. “Take it. Like that.”

“Ah – _fuck_ –” A jolt of heat went through his insides and he shuddered all over. Pet names had never really done it for him but with Geralt it was driving him out of his _mind_ and he was so close, Geralt pounding into him at the most perfect angle, he was inches away from coming his brains out.

Letting go of the headboard he worked his hand down between their bodies and jerked himself, once, twice, and then Geralt said, “yes – come for me,” and he did exactly that.

“Fuck – _fuck_ Geralt, yes, I – _ah_ ,” he said, his back aching, his whole body pulsing with it, the world going dark and fuzzy around the edges. “ _Fuck_ ,” he said weakly, going limp in Geralt’s arms.

Geralt was still fucking into him, slower now, gentle, and leaning down he cupped Jaskier’s face and kissed him, soft and wet. “Jaskier,” he said, drawing away. “ _Jaskier_.” 

“Uh-huh,” said Jaskier. He ran a hand down Geralt’s back, feeling his muscles moving beneath his skin, feeling him shudder all over as he came, breathing hard against his neck, hips working, fucking in and out in tense jerks, going still.

He lay atop Jaskier, making soft, rumbling noises of satisfaction against his skin. Jaskier ran his hand up and down Geralt’s back, tracing the tip of his spine. “Mmm,” said Geralt after a while.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier. “My thoughts exactly.” His searching fingers found a raised scar below Geralt’s shoulder and explored it. “We’re going to do this again, right?”  
“Uh-huh,” Geralt breathed.

“Cause if you try and walk out on me,” said Jaskier, but Geralt didn’t let him finish the thought.

“It won’t happen again,” he said. “I panicked.”

“Which time?” said Jaskier.

“Both times.” Geralt made a snuffling noise against Jaskier’s neck and shifted, lifting his head and laying it down upon his chest. “I listened to your album,” he said.

Jaskier’s heart lifted – and then just as quickly it sank. “You did?” He had _no_ idea how to feel about that. He’d never really considered the possibility.

“Yeah,” said Geralt. Jaskier waited for him to go on. He said nothing.

“Well,” he said, “what did you think?”

“Not my sort of thing,” said Geralt into his chest.

Jaskier lifted his head. He stared down at him. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Not my type of music,” said Geralt. “Sorry.”

“Are you serious?” said Jaskier. “You – you didn’t like it.” His head was spinning. This was a lot to take in at the best of times. After the fucking he’d just had he wasn’t sure he could process this much new information at once.

“I didn’t hate it,” said Geralt, in gentle, earnest tones of reassurance.

“Are you – _off_.” He shoved at Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt made a protesting sound. “No, _move_.” He shoved at Geralt till with a groan he raised himself up on his arms and shifted over to lie beside him. “Are you serious?”

“Hm,” said Geralt, and Jaskier was pretty confident that meant _yes, but I don’t like to say so_. Then, seemingly realising the conversation was _not_ going well, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“I,” said Jaskier, struggling to sit up, “I poured out my heart and soul into that album. And the best you can say about it is that you _didn’t hate it?_ I – I cannot believe you would say something so hurtful, about something so important to me –”

“I’m being honest,” said Geralt.

Jaskier wagged an accusing finger at him. “You, sir, are being a prick,” he said. “Say something nice about my music or I will be forced to ask you to leave.”

Geralt reached for his shirt. “I liked your cover of _Total Eclipse of the Heart_ ,” he said, which stopped Jaskier fully in his tracks.

“You’re a Bonnie Tyler fan?” he said. Geralt grunted in assent and pulled his shirt over his head. “Well. I’ll jot that down.”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“While – while we’re on the subject,” said Jaskier. “How did you find my album?”

Geralt looked him over his shoulder. “I googled ‘Jaskier Soundcloud’ and you came up.”

“Okay,” said Jaskier. “Okay. You know how to use Google?”

“I know how to use Google,” said Geralt, crawling back onto the bed to join him.

“But you don’t have a computer,” said Jaskier. “ _Do_ you?”

“You can use them for free in libraries,” said Geralt. Lying down beside Jaskier, he pressed a kiss to his upper arm. “Do you think I live in a hole?”

“Well,” said Jaskier, “you are _very_ filthy, all the time, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you did actually.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, kissing his shoulder. “That’s fair.”

“When did you listen to it?” said Jaskier.

“After we talked,” said Geralt.

 _Talked_ was a strong word for the exchange they’d had about the album, but Jaskier didn’t comment. “Just so you know,” he said, “that, um, period last year when I was covering break-up songs. That had nothing to do with you.”

“I didn’t think it did,” said Geralt.

“That was,” said Jaskier, “an unrelated. Project. Artistic reasons.”

“Of course.” Geralt’s hand rested upon his thigh. “Is that really how you see me?”

“Is what what?” said Jaskier.

“The things you said in the album,” said Geralt. “Is that how you see me?”

“Um,” said Jaskier, about a dozen of the things he’d said in the album rattling around his head all at once. “Yes?”

“Hm.” Geralt kissed his neck. “God, you smell good.”

“Get off,” said Jaskier, shoving him away. “Is that seriously all you have to say about my album? You’re a nightmare, you know that? I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you’re in love with me,” said Geralt, lounging on the bed beside him, smiling at him in a way Jaskier hadn’t seen him smile before.

“You don’t have to rub it in,” he said. “I have terrible taste. Ask anyone.”

Geralt’s hand ran up his thigh. “You’re in love with me,” he said again, as if now he’d said it out loud he couldn’t get enough of saying it; as if it was something wondrous, too good to be true, that Jaskier might want him, that he could touch Jaskier, like this, that Jaskier might _love_ him.

And wasn’t it? Wasn’t it, just? He’d never been in love before. And wasn’t it wondrous?

“I’ve never been in love before,” he said.

“Neither have I,” said Geralt. Taking Jaskier’s hand from where it lay on the mattress he kissed it. “I wanted you. So much. Never thought I could have you.”

“You could have had me whenever you wanted,” said Jaskier. “I thought. I thought you knew that, actually. I didn’t think you wanted to.”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“Oh, don’t just _hm_ at me!” said Jaskier. “I – I am a _snack_ , and I practically _threw_ myself at you, and you slept on my sofa instead. You monster.”

Geralt looked up at him. “You’re a snack?”

“Yes,” said Jaskier. “Yes, I am.”

Looking away Geralt said, “I saved your life. You clearly felt indebted to me. You asked me to go to bed with you. What was I supposed to think?”

“Oh,” said Jaskier, understanding dawning. “ _Ohh_. Okay. Yeah. I can see how that. Came off that way.” He flopped down against the pillows. Geralt’s hand was on his stomach, stroking slow, easy circles.

He wanted to take a nap. Preferably an extended one, _preferably_ with Geralt there for company. Then after that he’d probably be ravenously hungry.

“D’you want to get dinner later?” he said.

“Mm,” said Geralt. “Yeah.” Sighing, he shifted, laying his head down on the pillows beside Jaskier. “Yeah.”

*

“Okay, so,” he said, sitting up naked in bed, eating pizza. “There’s a whole other world, with people and monsters in it –”

“Yes.”

“And it broke into our world – what, a thousand years ago? And no-one’s noticed?”

“Fifteen hundred years,” Geralt corrected. “It’s another reality. When people see something that doesn’t belong in this reality, their instincts tell them it shouldn’t exist, here, so their brain blocks it out.”

“Unless it’s trying to kill them?” said Jaskier.

“Hm,” Geralt confirmed.

“Which you’d think would happen a lot,” said Jaskier. “Actually. I mean, I’m hardly the only person you’ve saved, am I? Are there more people who –”

“Most of the time it’s temporary,” said Geralt. “Survival instinct isn’t strong enough to break the mental block on its own. Takes something else.”

“What sort of something else?” said Jaskier.

Geralt picked up a slice of pizza. “I couldn’t make sense of why you remembered me,” he said. “For a long time I thought it was because you were writing songs about me. But it wasn’t that.”

“Is that,” said Jaskier. “Is that why you kept giving me material?” Geralt shrugged. “Well. The songs didn’t help, when you went away. They just made me more confused.”

“Sorry,” said Geralt.

“Why’d you keep coming back if you thought I’d forget about you?” said Jaskier.

“It was worth a try,” said Geralt.

“’Spose,” said Jaskier. “So what do you mean, something else?”

“Something,” said Geralt, “positive. Something worth holding onto.”

Jaskier lay back against the headboard. “Huh,” he said, mulling it over. “Oh, wow. Okay. That’s hilarious.” He sputtered out a laugh. “Oh, that’s too funny.”

“Is it?” said Geralt, perplexed.

“I broke through a – an interdimensional mental block thingy because I wanted you to rail me _that bad_ ,” said Jaskier. “ _Wow_. That is, um. Very on-brand for me, actually.”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“Right?” said Jaskier. He ate some more pizza. “Are there other active zones?”

“Yes,” said Geralt.

“And do they all just have the one witcher?” said Jaskier.

“These days.”

“There must be a way to tell people about the problem,” said Jaskier. “Surely?”

“Probably,” said Geralt. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Telling people?” said Jaskier.

“Yeah,” said Geralt.

“Why not?” said Jaskier. “There’s a whole other dimension spilling monsters into ours. It’s sort of a big deal.”

“Think about the history of the world,” said Geralt, “and then tell me you think people having a whole other planet to go poking around is a good idea.”

“Hm.” Jaskier thought about it. “Ah. Yeah. Yupp. That would be a disaster.”

“Hm,” Geralt agreed.

“What about the people on the other side of the gate?”

“Some of them know, some of them don’t,” said Geralt. “Most of them are too afraid to come here. When you go into a reality that isn’t your own. It can break your mind.”

“Is that why you made me leave?” said Jaskier. Geralt grunted in assent, and a chill went through him. “Yikes,” he said, and reached for another slice of pizza. “That’s sobering. And you can cross because you’re a mutant?”

“Something like that,” said Geralt.

“So,” Jaskier said around his pizza, “can you tell me about it? The other world?”

“Depends what you want to know,” said Geralt.

“Well, where are you from?” said Jaskier. “What’s it like?”

Geralt looked away.

“You don’t have to tell me,” said Jaskier, hurt. Trust Geralt to clam up just as it was getting interesting.

“I’m from this side of the gate,” said Geralt. “Originally.”

“Ohh.” Jaskier thought through the implications. “Oh, god. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Geralt. “I didn’t choose this life but I wouldn’t change it.”

“The mutant thing, though, that’s an – other side of the gate, thing?” said Jaskier. “How’d that happen?”

“It’s a long story,” said Geralt. “I don’t want to get into it.”

“Can people on the other side of the gate – see you?”

“Varies,” said Geralt.

Jaskier ate the rest of his pizza slice. “I can’t imagine how lonely that must be.”

“I enjoy my own company,” said Geralt.

“Still,” said Jaskier. “You have my company now. And I’m _great_ company.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. Then he said, “I’m glad I found you.”

“Me too,” said Jaskier. “Also just so you know. I’m going to keep on writing songs about you. Even though you hate all of them.”

“I said I didn’t hate them,” said Geralt.

“I’m going to make more and you’re going to have to listen to them,” said Jaskier. “ _Or else_.”

“That’s a price I’m willing to pay,” said Geralt gravely, and Jaskier snorted, and took another slice of pizza.

“How would you feel about me covering _I Need a Hero?_ ” he said.

“I’d love that,” said Geralt, and the worst thing was Jaskier was pretty sure he was completely serious.

“Okay, then,” he said. Then he said, “stay the night? In my bed, this time.”

“Yes,” said Geralt. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! & Thank you to everyone who commented on chapter one. You guys are so sweet & kind. <3 <3
> 
> Answers to some questions you may or may not have about this fic:
> 
> 1) Jaskier temps so he's in and out of work. He also busks sometimes.
> 
> 2) The witcher economy works like this: i) kill monster. ii) take monster parts through the gate and sell them. iii) use Continent side of the gate currency to acquire valuables that can be sold on the Earth side of the gate. iv) sell valuables. He's been selling stuff to them same handful of jewelers etc. for years and they _kind of_ remember who he is.
> 
> 3) Yeah Jaskier's heels in chapter one made him (slightly) taller than Geralt.
> 
> 4) Patrick & co were fine... vampire did not get anyone else.
> 
> 5) This story is set in the UK because Write What You Know but Jaskier's family are Polish originally. Geralt is probably from Poland but I haven't fleshed out a backstory for him for this AU yet.
> 
> 6) The gate doesn't make monsters, but it does make them more monstery.
> 
> 7) I want u to imagine Geralt sitting in a public library, with headphones on, listening to Jaskier's album completely poker-faced [like this](https://imgur.com/a/HDQd0iL), internally screaming the whole time.


End file.
